[open quest] the only way to begin is by beginning;

[Carnage]

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He tires of the quiet.
He is used to existing in lulls, of course – he has transgressed strange vacuums of space, where time seemed to move in ways his mind could hardly comprehend – but like he does with all things, he grows bored. And a bored god mustn’t stay bored long, lest he become terrible.
And so, he creates.
He builds, in one of these pocket universes, where madness becomes lucidity and vice versa, a playground.
Not for him, of course. No, he needs playthings.

And so he comes back to Beqanna, back on her quiet shores. He is bright and terrible, wine-dark eyes shining, for he can feel boredom receding.
Usually, he calls. He likes the formality of it, the summoning, their idiocy as they obey him – so bored or willing to die for him. But he feels more wicked, today. More ready to take than to offer anything.

There is a fungus, in the tropics. It infects ants, drives them from the safety of their nests out to the forest floor. The fungus drives the ants to bite down on the vein of a leaf, where they stay until, and even after, death.
He is the fungus, today, infecting them and driving their bodies from their nests of trees and meadows, up to the mountain. They will march, without knowing why – only knowing they are driven, driven, driven – to the top of the mountain.
And there, they will play.

OOC:
GOOD OL’ FASHIONED CARNAGE TORTURE QUEST LET’S GO
- Carnage is basically forcing you to the top of the mountain. How you interpret that is up to you. The compulsion to reach the top of the mountain will cease once you’re there, but you’re essentially rooted to the spot (read up on Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. It’s fucked up. Unrelated, I’m reading a cool mushroom book right now.)
- You’re aware of the others, but interaction is up to you.
- This isn’t an elimination quest, but you may withdraw at any time, just let me know. Failure to respond without notifying me may result in a defect.
- Per Carnage quest rules, defects/emotional and physical scarring/trait scrambling may occur.
- I plan to post round two no earlier than 6pm CST Sunday September 28. All entries are accepted until round two goes up.
- If you have any other questions, message me here or on Discord!

c a r n a g e

[Tipitina]

Her legs moved without her will.

Ink dipped spindles carrying her forward, one after another, climbing through grass, over stone, into the rising ribs of the mountain. Her mothlike antenna twitched and quivered as though catching signals too faint for the rest of her body to decipher. The neon streaks in her mane tangled in the wind, bright banners of something wild and unwilling, but still she climbed.

Her mind was immersed in a fog.The meadow she had grazed in minutes or hours ago seemed like a dream. Her thoughts unraveled like old string, scattering behind her as she walked. She did not think to stop. She did not think at all, she only moved with one motive- reach the summit.

The air thinned, sharpened, pressed cold against her sides as the mountain swallowed her whole. Her hooves rang against stone like ritual bells, hollow, steady, inevitable. Around her, she could sense the others, their bodies pulled in the same direction, threads knotted into the same cruel design.

And then finality- the summit.

Tipsy stilled as though waking from a dream. She blinked, her lashes brushing against the edges of her vision, and for the first time she realized she was there. Her chest heaved, her breathing still labored, though she could not recall the climb. She tasted blood in her mouth as if she had bitten her own tongue somewhere on the way up, yet she remained unfazed.

Her antenna flicked and she laughed a low, unsettled sound that tumbled out of her velvet lips before she could stop it. “Well,” she murmured, half to herself, half to whatever wicked hand had drawn her here, “isn’t this a fine trick?”

And though her hooves rooted her in place, though the mountain refused to release her body, her eyes glittered with sudden wakefulness chaotic, curious, and alive again.

I’m excited!))

[Baelfire]

Sweat darkens him, bleeds the blue of him through with blackness so thoroughly that he wonders, in a moment of levity born of mad mental exhaustion, if his sins have at last decided to stain him properly. His jaw pops, tension locking his teeth together against any laughter, rigid vocal cords permitting no more than an off-rhythm wheeze to offset the rasp of breath.  It is not the climb that makes steam rise from his skin as another dogged step scatters stones down the path before him, but the resistance in his every fiber. Baelfire has not known such willpower in himself, outstripping the weakness of his mind, a marvel of biology, an inspiring drive for survival that threads him through with shame as he bids himself surrender for the hundredth time since this began.

He has cajoled his body, begged his bones, pleaded with muscles that burn with terror and rage: We cannot resist. His body does not heed him even as it’s forced to submit to another. Some parts of him bred true, it seems, steadfast in the meat of himself. Useless as that may be.

His feet drive down one last time, jarring, into the splintering stony ground. Then he is rooted, still, bound by something that indifferently arranges his protesting cells into an arrangement of some grotesque utility.

Baelfire’s mind grows quiet, open, looking for purpose, as is its want. Something to interpret, some inspiration on which to act. It is with this shift that his tendons cease straining against the unnatural pull, and Baelfire waits as a marionette with potential quivering down his strings. He waits, not for mercy or release but for the hand that will use him, shape him, break him.

[FyreFox]

She was in a dream, she was almost certain of it. Walking up a mountain in a daze. Her eyes closed, hoping that when she opened them again she would be awake.
That didn't happen though. No she is was in this dream.
Was it a dream? What if it wasn't a dream? What was this then?

What was this then, her legs kept moving, against her own will, following others. The air grew chill the more they walked, higher up the mountain. Her mind kept trying to turn over what was happening. Shouldn't she be panicking? She felt way too calm, this didn't feel normal.

She tried to speak, but nothing happened. She tried to stop walking but her body wouldn't listen. Well this was definately different, betrayed by her own mind and body. All she could do was follow aimlessly.

It wasn't till they were at the top of the mountain that they stopped. She looked to the others, unsure what was going on or why they were here.
What's happened? She managed a extremely quiet rasp of sound.

[Wayfair]

The silence has never unsettled her, but tonight, it does. She has grown up in the silence, embraced the peacefulness of it. But the quiet tonight creeps into her chest and crawls along her spine. It steals the breath from her lungs and wraps its fingers around her frantically beating heart. But in the silence, there is a sirens song, or maybe the silence is the song. Whatever it is, and despite her trepidation, she finds herself moving towards those deadly rocks.

She doesn't know how long her legs move. She isn't in control of them, anyways. Something dark, something sinister and not of this world moves her from one spot to the next. Closing her eyes she reaches out with her mind, but even that yields nothing. The world is silent, aside from that compulsion to move that rattles her bones and forces them into motion.

Panic settles in when she begins to ascend The Mountain. The air around her is thin and her breathing is labored. Her control of the wind runs wild here, and her raven-black mane dances along her slender white neck. Some part of her soul relishes the darkness that is here, but the other part tries to shrink back in terror. Her legs still move forward though, pulled by whatever it is thats disrupted the night and drew her from her sleep. Once she reaches the summit, her hooves become rooted to the rocks, her motion ground to a very solid halt. There are others around who have seemingly befallen the same fate, but she spares them only a glance. She could just reach into their mind easily enough, if the need arises. For now though, she stands uncomfortably still. Only her mane whipping wildly against her neck and her heaving sides betray her for the living creature she is.

[Harrowed]

harrowed

When Harrowed has gone too long between feedings, when the need for rage and sorrow grows too strong and he becomes reckless with his hunts, it feels as though he has lost control of himself.

But it is never like this.

Never before has his body moved truly against his will, despite all attempts to divert it. He changes between canine to shadow to equine in an exhaustive attempt to disrupt whatever it is that has had control over him. None of his family are nearby, and he had not bothered with making friends, so there is no one to help.

(Perhaps his mother could no matter where she was – but just as he is deciding to see if she will hear him she sends only a brush of regret and encouragement)

It does not bring him comfort to know that this is something Beyza either cannot or will not disrupt.

Onward he moves, to an area of Beqanna he hadn’t yet felt curious about – there had been no need for this young stallion to climb the mountain before but now he does. The arcs of lightning at his side flickering with his agitation and worry. Until he senses it – the fear and uncertainty and rage of those who are also caught up in this. Their emotions call to him, a tonic so strong it may have made him stumble if someone else weren’t currently in control of his limbs.

When they finally stop, Harrowed is partially distressed to find out he still cannot move and partially too distracted and hungry for the negative emotions gathering upon the rocky mountainside.

[Fret]

i'm torn from the truth that holds my soul
i'm down in the grave where I belong --

The compulsion feels like something taking root in his veins, and yet he does not fight it. He simply follows that invisible pull, one step after the other, the shadows of the forest falling behind him as he abandons its safety and seclusion. It guides him out of the dark and into the waning light, the galaxy sheen of his armor glinting in the dying sun as he finds the well-worn path that winds up the mountain. He has never had any reason to go to the mountain, and if that thought tries to spring to mind it is quickly thwarted — he must go to the mountain, now.

There is a part of his mind that is still too simple, too basic; the monstrous side that does things only because it is instinct, that doesn’t really think about the hows and the whys — and this feels like that.
It feels like following his mother on her hunts even though he did not hunger for things the way she did.
It feels like trailing after her armored figure even though she rarely glanced back and did not seem to actually acknowledge or comprehend who he was — not her son, no, but instead a failed hunting partner, a hindrance to her mission.

Not monster enough to hunt with the xenomorphs, yet hardly equine enough to blend with the rest of them, either.

When he arrives at the top of the mountain and finds a small gathering, the spell breaks like glass shattering and clarity rushes over him like a wave. He blinks his starless-night eyes, unable to move, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to ask why they are here. All he can do is slowly tilt his strange head, his knife-tail poised, ready.

-- f r e t

[Sirin]

sirin;

There was something dark that had always festered within her.

It had sprouted like a seed, small at first, with shallow roots that could be easily pulled. She could have done so, if she'd had the inclination to. She could have let goodness grow in its place. She could have unfurled into adulthood like a flower turning into the sun. She had the face for it, after all, the look. Her coat was the same shade as swaying violets in a springtime breeze. Her hair was like the clouds, fair and spun and draped long over her shoulder. She had a delicate, dished face dotted by soft doe-eyes. Angelic wings lay neatly upon her sides, unused, mostly - exotic decoration meant to lure instead.

But Sirin couldn't be bothered.

The years twisted on and on like a corkscrew just as that poisoned vine twisted around her very bones and shot too deep into the marrow.

When the compulsion to move starts, it is met with a huff and roll of her eyes, but she does not try to resist further. Like most aspects of her life, she is indifferent. There has always been magic in Beqanna (well, almost always). Sirin has heard the tales, listened to the words of wonder and adventure pass through the lips of strangers in the shared lands she haunts. Though lately, there haven't even been whispers. The land has been stagnant for so long that it is hard to believe any force could wake it at this point. Not that it matters much to her. Not that anything ever really has.

This is something different, at least, a change of scenery at worst. The purple-hued mare reaches the foothills of the Mountain on what feels like borrowed feet. She sees other figures around her at various stages of ascension. Up, she thinks, but doesn't know why. Upupupup. And so she goes, on and on, one hoof after the other until she crests the top. A ragged breath is the only movement she makes that feels like hers', but even that is involuntary. She cannot move otherwise. Perhaps that rotted vine inside of her has become real and rotted her here. Maybe it will rise up and strangle her now. The thought isn't entirely unpleasant, she finds, a faint smirk on her lips.

Photo by Sinitta Leunen