Blood-meal for the plant that's plowed - ANY/ALL

[Pollock]

Enter again the sweet forest
     Enter the hot dream
       Come with us

He kept it secret, tucked away in a deserted corner of his wasteland.
He guarded this place like a lion, fear finding soft retreat in anyone that wandered too close to the perimeter he had set around it. He could feel that it was a hallowed site, still ringing with the chorus of their mixed psalms, screams and grunts—

This had not been the first time he had killed to feed the earth. He was a woodsman, years ago – a protector, a marker, a sower. This place? It had felt obstinate, for so long. Terminally sterile.
And, of course, it had been. With Carnage’s boot on her throat, the land was full of cancer that could not be excised and would never let the body thrive. He kept her obedient and he kept her parched 

When he had left, hardy, spiky succulents and tough, lip-splitting tussocks began to barge through the grey ground. They were symbols of unstoppable life and restoration – reclamation. They were Beqanna’s, seeds kept safely incubated in diseased wombs. 

He had detested them.
But at least they kept them scantily fed.

She decayed under his watchful eye, as was expected; 
Vultures came down to tear the brown-pink strings from her ribs. They were… marvelously thorough, leaving her bare-boned, but for the thinner skin that stretched across her bowed skull – he kept that untouched, for as long as he could, chasing them off with teeth unsheathed. But, eventually, even that began to peel away and the blackflies had their meager feast – eyes, lips, ears and all. 

They left so very little for the land. But life always finds a way; 
that soil, part corrupt and part divine, had been famished – in the end, hunger drives everyone to madness. 
She had taken those bones, Pangea, and she had picked her teeth clean with them. 
The gift-giver watched, dark eyes glinting with the hard wetness of thrill, as Ohio’s skeleton was subsumed by the earth below her, like a great maw opening and caving in, to take her whole; from that ancient throat gurgled cold, clear fossil water, slaking the holy pool made by their selfless sacrifice. 

Slowly it filled, and he waded into it, as if for rites – the clean smell of freshwater (and, perhaps, the faintest whiff of blood) proving the usefulness of this offering – and there he stood, until the water spilled past his belly and up his sides, eyes upturned and closed to the unfurling dawn.

Hallelujah.

* * * * *

His sanctum is quiet, but for the soft sloshing of water against his tough shoulders and haunches. He stands there until the sun comes to touch his forehead like a shepherd’s touch. His eyes, black and damp, flutter open against the starkness of new light, 

And to the beautiful revelation of his miracle:

Ringing the pool, crystalline and viridan, are tall, green and yellow grasses – some tender, others as hardy as the land they sprouted from – among them, blooms of soft pink, blood red and sun-gold; on either side of the spring, two barbed, contorted joshua trees, grow before his eyes (he swears he can hear the creaking as their flesh stretches and twists; he can hear the ragged panting of her labor) until stilling at their full height.
It smells of water and earth and flowers (and, perhaps, the faintest whiff of blood), so unlike the land that surrounds this oasis, stagnant and dirty.

He had seen it all in his fever dreams – bright like a jewel laid on a dead, grey collarbone – had prayed to saltwater until his brain clicked together like the cogs in a perfect, orderly watch.
He knew what he had to do, because it was what he was made to do.

Carnage had salted this earth, but in doing so, he had made it their's.
He had fed it, had consumed her life and in blood ritual, Pollock had fertilized it – built his cathedral of life from bones and viscera.

(There is more to be done.)

He waits for them, leaving the grand doors thrown open to the flock, for those who would rise to the surface as Pangean saints.

the gift-giver

OOC: So. Pangea has an oasis, created on a junction between Carnage's dead magic and Beqanna's "life" magic -- by blood ritual. 

Basically, Ohio, being the first horse felled in Pangea by violence (I THINK) became the foundation for the Sanctum/Feeding Ground/Ritual Ground (should it have a name?) -- she became the spring, the ring of vegetation and the two joshua tree guards.

But the earth is not sated, yet. Feed it more.

Horses killed in/near the oasis will very quickly decay and vegetation will sprout from them. Fast enough that your pony might be able to literally watch grass grow.

The water has NO magical properties, it is normal water, the grass is normal grass and the trees are normal. One day the earth might become full and need no more, but as of now, it will respond voraciously to corpses. The blood ritual may be preformed on a willing or unwilling participant, blood is blood; death is death. (If anyone is terribly interested, for not-quite-so-murdery ponies, perhaps bloodletting without death can be allowed, but only from an unwilling pony, and the result will be less generous?)

Please reply IC, as Polly will explain all things to the kingdom -- warnings and whats up.

I might also make a little murder mini-event for extra rank points if people are interested? Let me know in OOC note or PM me or whatever. I'm thinking like 1 points per IC kill of another player's horse, plus a point per post as usual; .5 points for an IC kill of a NPC or your own horse. Something like that. PLOT TIME. DEATH. IF YOUR PONY IS OFFENDED GO CRY TO LUCREZIA OR WHOEVER, LOSER.

This is a picture of Crystal Spring, Ash Meadows in Death Valley, this is what the oasis looks like more or less! I thought it would be nice to have something to describe other than "dust".

[Waylan]

I'm just a poor boy. I need no sympathy.
( because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low )

He had been hard at work, he had children to train, blood to spill, people to recruit, and most of all he had power to gain. It wasn't easy keeping everything together, both of his boys often strayed from their training, especially his own son, Imperial. What the hell was he gonna do with him anyways. If the boy couldn't inflict a minute blow upon his own comrade, his brother, that what was he of any use to Waylan? He needed defenses, he needed strength and with his boys he lacked much of it. They didn't share his ideas nor plans, and most of all they lacked guts. Although his boys were not the least of his worries, he still owed the prince of Pangea an extensive debt, Bruise had returned his gift, his invisibility ever so long ago, and with the return of his power he promised he would return to his dirty work. Something of which he had avoided lately, having two young squeamish boys was quite a problem when your trying to share you art. So he had held himself away from stripping flesh of carcass's like a vulture, and spilling blood ruthlessly upon Pangea's rotting earth. And last of all, he had to uphold his duty as a kingdom member, improving his rank and loyalty by recruiting fresh meat into death's doors, it was a simple pleasure just eyeballing the sweet flesh upon their wasting away corpses, most of whom he enthralled about Pangea would be eaten alive, but none the less while not open up all the options? He had quite a good selling point after all, "A land of NO rules, and utter freedom." It wasn't hard to entice, a sweet juicy morsel, into the mouse trap. Just as they take the cheese, he slays them with a relentless and harsh end, and they suffocate beneath the metal that bounds them to his tempting trap.

But today, he lingers within her bounds, instead taunting mice with cheese. He wanders, and he ponder awhile as he stalks through the cavernous canyons of his homeland. His two boy's lack of ill needed training filling his head. If his boys, were too weak, and too squeamish what could he do to make them excited, and enthralled by the sweet glory and enjoyment of ending a pathetic waste of flesh's life. Could he make it game? No, for it was already a game, just as the cat toils with it's prey, they were the dominant striking at the submissive's flesh again and again, and they were the rulers of this game, kings of their own masterful kingdom of torture. Yet why did it not interest them? Perhaps it was their mother, on the other hand she was quite weak herself, she lacked the guts to pull the trigger, to watch the light be released from their pupils. She lacked the courage, her boys needed, now perhaps that was problem? Or perhaps was he too soft on them. They were children after all, perhaps he needed to be harsher, to throw them straight into the actions to force them to do his handy work, just as his own father did. He considers the thought briefly, his crimson gaze flickering about, as he wanes on the idea of forcing them into it. But he risks the possibility of breaking them, shattering them like bones beneath his weight. If it was too much, his boys would be lost, instilled in mourning, and regret. And he couldn't have that now.

As the murderous man considers the idea, his gaze falling upon the horizon. Where vegetation seemed to plume out in a rather projectile manner, very unpangea like formations of foliage. And as he got closer, his ruby gems fix upon a water hole, littered with a matted mess of golden grass imbedded with blooms of vibrant colors, and unruly trees. "Strange." He whispers under his breath. For it was very strange indeed, for life to be flourishing in such a place cursed by the fairies, enthralled with an endless cycle of death. But it seems he's not the only one there, standing within the echoing silence is the cloven hooved king, Pollock.

Waylan, is quick to show his respect, and loyalty, as his wickedly handsome cranium inclines dipping forwards in some form of a bow. His blood red eyes meeting his king, partially bewildered by the strange sprout of paradise within her grounds. He remains silent for a moment or two, allowing himself to near the azure pool, his nostrils flaring at the waters edge as he bowed his head down curiously to quickly inspect the waters. And within in moments he realizes, his gaze falling upon each piece of flourishing vegetation that formed, and something lingering in the back of his mind hailed carnivore, carnivorous. With those two words, he speaks up, "I need to feed it."

waylan

any way the wind blows        doesn't really matter to me

OOC: Alright, just clarifying a little bit. We can sacrifice our own ponies for points? So if I decide it's time for Waylan's mother, Becca to you know, die in the Oasis. Killing her would count as points?