[ok friends, so here's a super power fight! anyone can join, but be aware that injuries may occur and no one is completely immune to anything. You can bow out or jump in at any time, so long as the thread is active. let's be creative and imaginative and have some fun with this!]
Bel should be sore at losing his challenge, but when he thinks about it, the thought of having to take care of a bunch of mares (again) is just so… unappealing at the moment. And let’s be honest, he fucks around for the fun of it, not because he actually wants to do something. He’s a lazy asshole who gets his rocks off by torturing others (for the most part), and playing with his ice powers. Just knowing the extent of what he can do is enough. Sometimes. Other times (like now), he’s feeling another sort of itch, and it’s the kind that needs an cold, cold touch.
Good Lord, when you think about it, Belgarath has really mellowed as he’s aged. There used to be a time when he was a go-getter and held a rank in the Chamber. He might be able to be persuaded to do something like that again, but there would have to be something particularly juicy in it for him – succulent and moist and dripping in sweet, sweet nectar – the kind of thing that would dribble juice down his chin when he bites into it. The kind of thing that makes people move to the tropics, or even just SoCal for. He doesn’t have anything particular in mind at the moment, but he’ll know it when he hears it. Could be oranges or peaches or mangoes. Could be tan women in barely-there bikinis. But what does a horse know of those things?
Mostly just for the hell of it, and because winter is coming, Belgarath stands at the fringe of the Meadow, under the watchful eye of half-naked branches and browning leaves. The air around him cools dramatically as his glacially blue eyes wander over the bums and vagabonds. Technically, he is one of them. But he could hardly be lumped together with the rest of them. And to prove that he not to be lumped in with one of them, a resounding, thunderous CRACK! rips across the Meadow, as the ground beneath him splits, and ice rapidly rises, pushing him onto an elevated ice dais, three times as high as himself. His footing is sure, for the ice is as much a part of him as his blood is. With the ice comes fear and distress and all of those fun things that demons like to pull with when they rise from those various circles of hell.
Winter is coming. Eh, scratch that. Winter has come early.
The dappled warhorse leers and looms from on high, enjoying the stares and looks of confusion and fear. But as this is Beqanna, there will surely be some do-gooder who will try to challenge him – or even better, someone who wants to play along. So let’s play King of the Castle, shall we?
May the best – and strongest – horse win.
09-21-2015, 07:50 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-22-2015, 02:06 PM by Tiberios.)
You see, winter had stopped bothering Tiberios some time ago. Its influence had lost its grip as soon as he’d fought his resurrected self and gained an eternal fire. Always warming him, always pressing against his bones to be free. Truth was, he’d never pushed the limits of his power, mainly because he’d never felt the need to. There had never been a moment in time where he felt he needed it - even though it was a muscle he could easily flex. He’d come across other horses who could wield flame, seen how their orange tendrils had wove and risen along their bodies. He admired them, but he could not relate. His own flame, a white heat at the center ringed in pale blue, radiated a devilish warmth that was too dangerous to play around with.
That didn’t mean he kept it hidden. As he traversed the meadow the flame ran rampant, circling his neck and dancing along the golden blaze that covered his face. He laughed, because even as he controlled it the flame took a life of its own. Though the gift had taken much (this was obvious by the marring of his body) it had also given in return. It had given him Shatter, it had given him purpose, and it had given him renewed life. The flame was all his own to command, but he never pressed it to bend to his will. Over time, Tiberios liked to think of his gift as his companion.
As sincere as his thoughts were getting, they were interrupted rather rudely. An enormous, resounding crack ricochets through his body and sends the meadow into turmoil, ripping the very soil in half. Tiberios turns, eyes wide as he views ice erupt from the ground to raise a lone horse above the others.
Instantaneously, Tiberios is pissed.
He’d hated show-offs since his run with the magician, and this horse looked no different. Puffed up like some grand bird on his pedestal, he peers down among the others and smirks. Tiberios is not impressed. Instead, he feels the fire screaming within, and for the first time in a long time, he agrees. No more playing around. His body spontaneously combusts, the white wildfire completely consuming him. He’s not burnt - in fact, he’s smiling right along with the ice-horse. His own power rages, fanning out into a circle around him before rising in pillars. He’s ringed in unearthly fire, and he loves it.
“Your mother never taught you manners, did she?” He calls out, stepping forward while the others disperse. The heat is so unnerving that the very ground begins to harden, turned to glass as if lightning has struck it. His ears fall, and his head tips to the side. “Someone needs to put you in your place.” The flame, enticed by his words, grows into a spiraling inferno and leaps out, touching the ice that the grey has created. Tiberios feels an adverse effect, screaming that rings in his mind and horrible images of Shatter flashing across his eyes. But he accepts it and cringes, watching the ice retreat with the new threat.
If it was a show he wanted, it was a show he’d get.
She had been bored this morning. Patrolling and exploring the Jungle had held little appeal for her on this particular day. She is restless, wishing to stretch her metaphorical wings and soar the skies. So, with little fanfare, she leaves the Amazon and takes to the overcast heavens.
Though the jungle is as hale and vibrant as ever, the rest of Beqanna is slowly dying, giving way to the oncoming winter. And though she has grown accustomed to the Jungle’s heat, she finds that the cold still does not bother her terribly much. Perhaps that has something to do with knowing exactly how it feels to freeze. How it feels to have your body become solid, immobile. How it feels to shatter. She bears the scars of the horrific occasion upon her entire body, a testament to her will to survive. Or to a magician’s power, however one prefers to look upon it.
She reaches the meadow just as a large CRACK! splits the air. She had been just about to land, to see who might be lingering about these parts today, but the ice spreading rapidly across the earth causes her to think better of that plan. With the ice comes dreadful visions, of ice and snow, of death and destruction. But these are nothing compared to what she has already lived. If the idea was to frighten her, whatever is causing this would need to try much, much harder.
As she lifts back into the air, raising herself to a higher vantage that she might see who the culprit is, the dark fissures in her skin begin to spark and flare, her internal light dancing across her skin in a wild display. She spies him easily, for he has boldly raised himself upon a dais of ice. Well, well. Someone’s gotten a little cocky.
Her metallic eyes flare brightly as a grin spreads across her lips. And here she thought her day had been doomed to boredom. Be careful what you wish for, they say. In this case, she thinks her wishes are working rather well.
Just then another stallion approaches, anger in his tone as he challenges the dapple stallion. How could anyone possibly resist this? With a grin on her lips and a spark of defiance in her golden eyes, she offers her own rejoinder.
"Looks like I’m in for quite a show. Should I be selling tickets?"
 this isn't mischief Honestly, dick-sizing competitions are one of the trickster’s favorite past-times. When it comes down to the fact that you’ve seen fire destroy a kingdom, impressed the queen everyone hated, defeated your own zombie self, been caught in a bubble with a magician wanting your assistance, and fought in a war which sent brains and matter splattering all over your body, silly little whose-trait-is-better games are a breeze. This time is no different.
He doesn’t have anywhere to call home just yet, but the meadow has become suitable for the time being. Already, someone has gone seeking him out in the meadow (proving it to be a good place for someone to find him). It’s amusing, really, considering the fact that the meadow is the same place his disgraceful mother brought him into this too-happy world. He’d spent the beginning of his time in Beqanna again watching mares and stallions get it on in the heat of the moment, and then watching the leaves brown and fall off in dramatic exits of life.
He hadn’t, just yet, seen anything of importance or excitement. Until the ice-wielding stallion sauntered in and caused the earth to split and a pedestal for him to sit his dick on rose from the ground. He hadn’t seen the earth split open since his own little trait-sizing game with the golden-eyed Jungle mare too many years ago. Nonetheless, with all the things the trickster has seen in his lifetime, the sight of ice shooting from the ground and sending a lone stallion higher than all the others doesn’t strike fear into his heart like one might expect.
In fact, his mouth creases into a smug grin when a do-gooder stands up from around the scattering horses (most of Beqanna don’t care to see blood or gore, nor wish to stick around to watch a show when they might be caught in the sway of it) to challenge the ice-wielder. The trickster, all the while, stays settled snugly under his half-naked tree and waits to see what might happen. Chaos is blossoming here, and he won’t be able to stay away for too long.
A mare with light rippling across her body floats from the sky to poke and prod at the two stallions and the trickster takes that as his cue to slide in. He might as well whip out his own dick now that there’s an actual mare around (although her smell comes off as Jungle – which entices the possibility of fierceness and independency – he still fondly remembers the last Jungle mare he met).
His little tricky fingers seep their way into each of their minds, portraying his seamless voice in their minds instead of from his throat. Who knows if they would have been able to hear him from under his tree amidst the sounds of fire and ice and light. “Hey there, gents, I hate to break it to ya but breeding season’s already over… So you can put your dicks away, now.” He doesn’t move from his position under the tree (among all the fire swirling about and the ice creeping around and the floating mare, he’s very nearly a worm under a rock in this situation), but the faintest hints of sandstorms swirl around his ankles, encouraged by the idea of a fight. lokii this is mayhem
Of course Belgarath is a douchebag. He loves pissing off others, just for the sake of seeing them get mad. It’s a little game he likes to play - see how much of a rise he can get from someone else. Do you think he really wanted Gryffen’s herd? No. Oh no. He’d been there and done that and after Alasia, Bel had no desire to do anything but fuck ‘em and leave ‘em.
The big, dappled stallion watches all eyes turn to him - some fearful, some amused, some flashing in anger. Oh boy. This would be fun. And the first to react does not disappoint him. A black and white stallion answers his icy proclamation as King of the Meadow with a fiery rebuttal, white hot flames rushing up in pillars that an archangel would envy. Oh… very good sir. Challenge accepted. And to his other side, a glowing mare levitates up to his level, though neither attack nor verbal assault comes from her. With just a quick glance, he cannot tell whether or not she’s amused or pissed or just doesn’t want the boys to have all the fun.
Then the stallion calls out an insult of sorts, and Belgarath cannot help but laugh. “My mother was a harem whore, so no.” That’s all he’ll give away. Nevermind that he was taken away soon after he was weaned and trained with the other colts, only to be forced out when his skills rivaled his sire. Skills that he’s let slip by the wayside in favor his otherworldly powers. But to the black and white’s insistence that someone put Bel ‘in his place,’ well, he doesn’t agree. The flames shoot towards the ice, but none come towards him, and so Belgarath laughs. His ice was resistant to any mortal fire - even the hottest flames. He would need some sort of holy power to counteract Bel’s demonic forces. “Nice try, but you don’t seem up to the challenge,” he shoots back, flinging razor sharp ice shards down towards his opponent. The spray out over a ten foot radius, coming at irregular intervals.
And then a voice creeps into his head, and he practically hisses. Oh that... now that just isn’t fair. This should be a physical powers only fight! Mental games are a woman’s way. Nevertheless, he grits his teeth and clenches his jaw and not caring whether or not they think him crazy, shouts back. “What makes you think this is about dick size? I’m the motherfucking King of the Meadow.” What was it to others, anyway? He doesn’t know it, but one is already a King of his own land. The other sworn to women. And this voice, well… if he is such a harbinger of chaos, then he and Belgarath should be fast friends. He could probably show Bel a thing or two, come to think of it.
belgarath 
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Tiberios
