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+---- Thread: blood on my knife; any (/showthread.php?tid=2897)
blood on my knife; any - Pazuzu - 08-13-2015
He enjoyed his games. They amused him. Perhaps one day he would find and meet his match, but for now he was on his own. For now he was his own all powerful entity. He could break that mare over there, enrage that stallion. He could kill that child, he could sneak in the shadows. He could play any thing he wanted. He could be a gentleman or old and gray. He could shrink himself to a foal, playing on some poor mother. He could do whatever the hell he wanted and he enjoyed it.
But, he was bored. And that was obvious in his gait as he moved through the shadows of the approaching night. His black coat seemed to blur along the edges, melting in the darker shadows as he moved through them. And he just walked, his eyes moving this way and that as he did so, perhaps his next innocent victim would be around here somewhere.
RE: blood on my knife; any - Ephrelle - 08-13-2015
Ephrelle likes the darkness, much more so now than she had as a child. She had never been afraid of it – there were too many shadows in the Jungle – but recently it has a new sort of appeal.
During the daytime, she remains as she has always been. She is a horse, varnished smoky black roan, with her mother’s height and her father’s build. She is normal, unremarkable in everything except how perfectly average she is. Only her eyes are noteworthy, as bright a green as the foliage in the Jungle. Emerald green; her mother’s green.
Her eyes are the same now, peering through the darkness as she makes her way through the Meadow. Everything else though? That is different. Her silky black tail swings behind her, tipped with four long spikes and lined with plate-like scales that continue up her back until they disappear into her mane. Her hooves have been replaced by an odd number of toes, and the gold scale markings on her nose now extend across her entire body, which is heavily muscled enough to put a pure Percheron to shame.
Ephrelle likes this form the most, but she is unwilling to show it in the daylight. For now though, she is content, making her way through the darkening meadow on her way to nowhere in particular. She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns to see a figure even blacker than the evening, strangely blurry at the edges. She squints, wondering if her eyes are failing, but it does no good.
RE: blood on my knife; any - Kult - 08-13-2015
He was one of The Children, and that was everything.
Kult swayed as he walked, a rolling unnatural gait. Predetory, prowling, his nape slung low dipping his head towards the earth. He was young, very young, but he wouldn't be coddled, wouldn't be dictated by some worrisome Dam. Most of them wouldn't, his brothers and sisters, they were many. He was colored a dull, lackluster bay, with no shine whatsoever. His only distinguishing mark, his only mark period, was an irregular star strongly resembling the letter 'x'. It sat half covered by his ebon mane, between two flat black eyes.
With that look, one might never know Kult had anything going on upstairs. Might mistake him for some brand of simpleton.
Such a blank stare for such a young man, concerning if your life was rainbows and wishes. Not so much when your momma encouraged your deviance, smiled at each kill. Why you say? To watch them die of course. It was a favor, to be released from the cage of the physical plane, to obtain the divine at the other end. He had right to make that decision, they all did, they were absolute.
It was written in iron, made true by the statue that lingered in the cove. Solidified by the teaching of the Mothers, they could all achieve salvation, if they were faithful, if they did works for him.
He walked pointedly to the other male, his dial not even turning to take in the reptillian form of the female. As he neared, stopping just short of the black figure, he finally spoke. The saints they would recoil at his voice, an assured, un-childlike speech."I want to play a game,"a simple sentence, but it did not bode of chase or frolicking. No, the other would know exactly what sort of frivolity he was into. The boy could recognize a black heart anywhere.
RE: blood on my knife; any - Pazuzu - 08-18-2015
And then this young thing comes to him and he supposed that on others that voice, eerie in it's own way, would send a shiver down one's spine. However, Pazuzu feels nothing, whatever this boy thinks he can do, the stallion can do greater. So he turns, the black to the young bay who is nothing more than a child really and almost laughs at him. His mirth is contained. "What do you know about playing, boy?" The stallion asks him, even as he all but dismisses him. It would take something great for him to be amazed, to even contemplate allowing him along in his adventures.
He turns away from Kult, turns to look back towards the mare. He slips fowards, leaving the boy behind him, allowing the shadows to fall from him so that he was visible. His coat changing in a ripple so that he was a mirror image of the mare before him, her own voice rippling out of his mouth. "Who are you?" Those emerald green eyes of her own peering back into her own eyes.
(Do you have any restrictions on to how evil you want him to be?)
RE: blood on my knife; any - Ephrelle - 08-22-2015
 There is something terribly wrong with the little bay colt. Even the way he walks isn’t right, and kid-hearted Ephrelle wonders if perhaps he has some sort of spinal deformity that forces him to move in such a way. His eyes are blank, empty like those of a warrior with too many blows to the head, and Ephrelle turns her attention entirely away from the shadowy figure to focus on the boy. Is he alone out here? At night? Surely a child so delayed and deformed must have some caretaker. He looks to be alone though, at least until he begins to approach the shadow creature. Ephrelle is near enough – and still moving closer, clearly concerned about the child – and she hears him say something but the distance is too great for her to hear exactly what it was. She does hear the shadow reply to him though, brief before the shadow turns toward her. The boy had asked to play, she thinks, but the shadow wasn’t interested. As it comes toward her she stops immediately, her green eyes narrowing suspiciously. The suspicions bleeds rapidly into confusion, but she is not fearful by nature. Perhaps she should be. “I’m Ephrelle,” she says to herself. She’s never seen herself outside of her reflection in the swift moving Amazonian river, and takes a moment to inspect herself. Definitely scary, she thinks; that will come in handy on the battlefield. “Who are you?” then take this pleasure and take it with the pain |
Just that she not die or be permanently damaged
RE: blood on my knife; any - Kult - 08-27-2015
Midnight begins to creep along the meadows, and seems to enhance the macabre setting. Not destroy, not dull.
His eyes peer back with emptiness, solidly fixed on the black stallion. Sometimes Kult spoke and other times he was speechless, leaving one to endure their weight. Those void black pits told his story, in ways words could not.
He stood strangely still, for a child so young, as if possesed by some malific spectre. He discovered the devils when he was young, much yoinger than he was now. And at that time, came to the realization that these thoughts and actions were occuring inside himself. That he was the creator. His voice floats plainly after the darkness, skirting his steps, but not ever falling too close. "Shouldn't you already know that? What happens when you tear the world apart?" He finishes with a question, a thought, one he had been considering just then.
The female is close now, too close to not take note of. Her form is off, different to what it should be, with a strange reptilian tail. He can make out scales that fold across her skin as she continues to approach. He regards her with a walled indifference. If he took any interest in her unusual shape, he did not show it. He simply stared, looking almost blankly at them both.
The boy watched as the man melted, morphed into the reflection of the female. Staring her down from behind her own face, her own voice. Kult tilted his head if only slightly, his ears straining forward, the only sign he was listening. The stranger reflected her own question back at her and she made answer it seemed, with a name.
Kult blinked once, twice, engaged the original emerald eyes. "Kult." Just the one word, short and clipped. A smile tried to pry past his lips, making the gesture false and strained.
No death. No life threatening or disfigured wounds.