"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Pack calls to pack. If the new King of Sylva had opened a jaw of teeth and sang the cry of his ancestors, perhaps Crevan’s interest might have been piqued enough to show face (or muzzle, as was the usual case with him.) But no such cry had come and so the tawny-coated wolf shifter had not only chosen to forgo the meeting altogether, but in fact had also deemed it useless enough to send him far outside those red-gold borders in search of other, more entertaining matters.
Of course, Merida had always been quite apt in the way of keeping him happy. Whether she was underpaw or gnawing away at a shared kill, the fiery vixen had been every ounce the agreeable packmate he always knew she’d turn out to be. The fact that she wasn’t wolf hardly seemed to bother him anymore; she’d shown him well enough a time or two just how well she could keep him in line and on his toes. Soon enough, her company had soothed the bitter ache of losing his den mother and Crevan had fallen right back into the place he had once fit so well: as flank in an established unit, with Merida as the point.
But today he’s on his own. Wherever she’d gotten off to, Merida hadn’t returned and so Crevan uses the free time to slip through the bend and twist of Forest paths, his paws making surprisingly little to no sound for such a behemoth wolf. There have been ghosts and wraiths in this land, and truly he doesn’t consider himself one of them (despite what others claim,) he simply sees himself as a sandy-colored creature that sometimes seems too at odds with the horses here.
No matter; it’d been since childhood that he’d donned the skin of his birth shape, the one his father and mother had given him and the shape he now detests. If the others avoided him because of his predatory nature, so be it. He had no interest in their politics or problems anyways, let them keep their hooves and manes.
He’d always liked his plush fur and sharp fangs better anyways; the right kind of people would too.
OOC: Anyone in general is welcome and, since Crevan isn't as fragile as most ponies, this post is open to those who might want to try out their powers on another character! You have my permission to attack/etc.
04-23-2018, 03:48 PM (This post was last modified: 04-23-2018, 03:48 PM by Sinner.)
He slips through the bends and twists of the forest.
The forest has become a familiar place to him, perhaps it was a place he might considered to be a home. Often it has become a hunting ground as well, but he finds himself lingering towards the outer edges of the forest now and into other common lands. It is the hunger that drives him outwards, to fill his aching hunger.
It is the hunger now that he scavenges through the forest.
He takes on a familiar form—but it is no wonder he does not linger in his equine form. Sinner had been born in the form of a hellhound pup. He had been an omen, a message from hell for his necromancer father, Rodrik. It was a warning to return to his ways—the dark master never forgets his little puppets ever.
The hellhound holds his form, shape and shifting into a wild beast. It is an instinct that is ever nonetheless natural to him. He is black as the night with red and yellow glowing eyes—always craving blood, flesh and bone. The belly of the hunger is never entirely fed—often it is more than meat it craves, but chaos and discord of the world.
Thus, when he sets eyes upon the sandy-colored wolf, he feels a sense of kin-ship. It is natural for him to feel a bound towards others. The pack always finds one another (something he has grown accustomed to from the beginning of his time here), but he also has a tendency to serve others that hold closer to the dark side of the world. After all, he is simply a slave to the masters that harbor darkness and destruction.
Sinner lets out a low growl to the sandy creature. It is a greeting more than anything, letting the other one know he is there. Some hounds were more territorial. Sinner had found that out, but he had been the winner in the end of the brawl.
“Well, well,” he says with a large smirk crowing across his black muzzle. A wolfish grin appears from ear to ear now. “What do we have here.” His tone is callous as always, and it is no different when speaking to the wolf.
What seems like eons ago now, Crevan had been born in a dark, damp hole beneath the bloodied roots of a redwood in the once-kingdom Taiga. He’d only known that other horses existed because his birth-twin was one; a plain horse with no other shape locked inside. That was then, though, and this was now. Those memories of claws digging into muffled earth and finding the den of rabbits were his home - not this Forest, not the outer reaches of Sylva where he’d once been an asset, not even this world, Beqanna.
He had no place in time or purpose to live anymore, with the fear of death so empty in his heart and the prospect of age unwritten from his bones.
Pack calls to pack, Sinner was telling true, but he knows that what calls the hellhound innately to him is something much darker, much more sinister.
We agents of hell must stick together, after all.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, freak.” Crevan replies, holding his position steady at the expected arrival of the gargantuan demon. The taupe fur along his own crest and nape stands rigid; the only semblance of a warning he’ll give. His companion was thoughtful enough to forewarn, though his size and distinct look gave Crevan reason to believe such an action was altogether unnecessary. There was nothing to fear on his end anyways, unless the other was a true magician.
“What little rock did you slink out from under?” He tries, unable to rip his gaze from the burning cinders set inside the darker wolf’s skull.
05-12-2018, 02:54 PM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2018, 02:55 PM by Sinner.)
He is drawn to the obvious kinship of canines, perhaps by animal instinct to find others that are akin and find an innate need to be with others—to be a pack, perhaps a family. It was only natural that he came to the wolf, but there is something more ominous and dark dwelling beneath his canine-like appearances. Perhaps he is also drawn to find it also within the other wolf.
Sinner smirks at the other wolf. He is amused by how the other one does not let hid guard down and holds his stance. The hound has always liked someone who shows strength, but even now he can see there is more to this than meets the eye. And that is why he does not find a meal out of the other wolf today—the hunger could wait.
“Freak?” He laughs softly. “I will take that as a compliment. It is far much nicer than what I have been called before.” But his reputation of being such things was only the beginning. His time to slither and remain in the shadows would not be for too long now. The beast would find his purpose among those in Beqanna. There would be someone worthy of his service, someone he would call master.
The dark hound steps closer. He does not show any ounce of fear at the other wolf. In fact, he is quite comfortable from where he stands within the current situation. Sinner has yet to find an ounce of fear within his own blood. Perhaps he would never when he is fear itself to some.
“I did not come from a rock!” He hisses. How condescending could the other wolf be? He growls at the disgust of such suggestion from him. “I came from a far greater place than the likes of a rock or even that plagued wasteland that used to be here,” he says mentioning the brief kingdom of Pangea—a kingdom that slinked away with the rest of the legends of the old world as well. “Perhaps one day you will know the likes of my home,” he says with a smirk.
05-13-2018, 05:02 AM (This post was last modified: 05-13-2018, 05:10 AM by Kwazi.)
Kwazi walked through the forest, his hooves landing gently on the forest floor. His blue orbs scanning the terain.
Flints snapped twigs underfoot, unaware of the peresence of a hellhound and wolf. His immortal body moved gracefully across the ground, sorrel splashed coat easially spotted through the trees.
His flaxen mane and tail quivered in the breeze, making the stallion feel more comfortable in the woods. He often found himself here these days, after what's happened in the near twelve years of his absence.
/ / Feel free to attack or do whatever to this boi! His hide is too pure, it needs some scarring done to it.
Crevan’s eyes have stared into hell and beyond. He’s felt the brush of death’s fingers against his cheek, let those cold lips touch his own and suck the marrow dry from his bones. (“Don’t be afraid when the night wolves cry. Feast on their bones, suck the marrow dry.”)
His mother’s lullaby and Sinner’s laugh cause his spine to straighten and grow stiff. “Freak?” The other says, seemingly taken aback by Crevan’s outpouring. (Yes, the pale wolf thinks, pretend you’re offended all you want.) His new companion talks some more, (he’s guilty of it himself, sometimes) and then the hellhound does what Crevan knows he cannot resist doing - taking those large, dark paws and shuffling himself closer in a display of nonchalance.
To the shifter, it’s as good as a challenge.
His hackles raise now, giving way to a snarl that exposes both upper and lower jaw. “I did not come from a rock!” The other hisses, but Crevan is certain he’s about to find himself underneath another one anyways. “I could care less about your forgotten home,” The wolf rages, his nightlock-colored eyes wide as his teeth gnash against one another, “or you, for that matter.” Crevan jars, his mouth now alive with the glow of sparks and soft tendrils of flame. They leak past his black-rimmed lips and spill out across the forest floor where he now paces, keeping Sinner always at his front.
“That’s close enough. What do you want?” He finishes, halting as if to emphasize the command. A snap of twigs catches a single ear, tilting the tan-colored appendage around to place the source but he won’t dare look away from the Hellhound. It could be another coming to join in, possibly backup for this behemoth and yet … Crevan feels a little thrill of excitement at the idea.
It’d been far too long since he’d had a real confrontation.
@[Sinner] @[Kwazi] So, basically he hears Kwazi but he's on full-alert mode so he's not about to be distracted, lol.
A simple misstep with words turns the tables around.
Sinner pressed forward too much, but he does not slip away from the other draws up. The other wolf exposes his teeth, calling for a challenge. He welcomes it—after all it has been too long.
“Perhaps today is the day you will see hell,” he smirks wide, a wolfish grin appears from ear to ear. The bloodhound snarls at the other wolf. Only does he step back a pace when he sends the flames out, blocking his path to reach the other wolf. Sinner growls in disgust at such offenses.
He feels his claws dig into the forest floor. Glowing red and yellow eyes carefully follow the other wolf as he paces back and forth. The flames may divide them but Sinner already has plans to tear him limb from limb. He hungers to taste flesh and blood and to hear bones break.
It seems the other wolf is not too keen on strangers, not taken likely by simple words. “Do I intimidate you that much?” He asks with a laugh, eyes glinting with humor. The hound can fill his blood boiling, adrenaline running through his veins. He can taste the thirst for the fight, the thrill of it is almost too tempting.
The sound of a broken twig; the scent of the other; and a quick glance to the woods draw him away from the other wolf for a second. Something else calls him—something screams pristine, innocence. The evil within, the darkness calls him to it. “I want to hunt.” He could careless for the brawl they would have, tearing each other from limb to limb seemed less exciting than what was offered just around the bend of the forest.
No invitation was needed for the other wolf to join—after all there was a kindship they shared.
Sinner turns with a quick twist, black paws finding contact within the forest floor easily. He moves swiftly, bounding towards the direction the sorrel splash had headed off to. The scent aids him in his search—the hunt is one. He can fill the thrill increasing—the high is even more satisfying than anything he has felt in a long time.
Just through the group of trees he spots the horse. Sinner curves around the trees, jaws opened wide as teeth are exposed. He halts in front of the stallion, growling. “Hello,” he greets with a devilish smile, salvia dripping from his jowls.
