"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
09-04-2016, 05:08 AM (This post was last modified: 09-07-2016, 12:26 PM by Leah.)
Wanna get those points rolling in faster?
IT'S QUEST TIME BABY.
Prompt
-The Breeders Cup is in two months, and you need to qualify for it. The open, the sprint, the whatever - you need to qualify.
Rules
-Minimum 150 words, maximum 550 words
*anything over or under will be nixed.
-Multiple entries per player are allowed.
-You have until September 11th is no longer September 11th in the western united states.
Prizes
-1st: 5 points for your character
-2nd: 4 points for your character
-3rd: 3 points for your character
-4th: 2 points for your character
*5 horses will qualify for the Cup on top of the top 4, each will get 1 point
*2 wild cards will get 0.5 points, and only be able to race in the Cup if two drop out
This is so vague, Fairy Face!
Yeah, so have fun with it. Or don't. Make me laugh, make me cry, make me whatever.
For those that had known power, the feeling of magic nearby was undeniable and unmistakable. So when the crackling, vibrating feeling that had been seated on the detestable mountain was suddenly moved to the quest lands, the black beast notices. He perks his head up, ears and eyes alert in a way they had not been for days now and he finds himself moving towards the magic. It does not take him long to find the quest lands (there was not much inhabitable land left to separate him from it after all) and the fairy that was behind all of his recent misery. So she wanted to play games with them now? His lips move into a grimace.
But he knows there is no choice. The creature wants them to play to gain back what she had ripped away and he desperately needed to restore his lover to her former glory. He must play her game.
A race? The male feels a weight in his stomach at the thought. Maybe when he had been able to transform himself into something smaller, sleeker, swifter, he could have won a race. But now? His build, though muscular, was not made for speed. He knew there were many within the confines of this godforsaken land that could outpace him in a sprint, even without special abilities. His innards twist with anxiety. Still, he must try his best.
So he moves his bulk into the lineup of the others also playing along. From his vantage point in the middle of the pack he views their goal – it is not far for this would be only a “qualifying sprint” the impish creature tells them. He hopes against hope that a short burst of adrenaline will push him there with greater speed than his heritage should allow.
He readies himself. Waits for the fairy to wave her proverbial checkered flag, and then
He rears, letting out a terrible sound from the depths of his throat and pushes himself forward with all of his might. His heavy hooves pound the ground with terrifying vigor. He uses his strategic place in the middle of the lineup to his advantage now, jostling those to his left and right (hoping to cause some sort of chain reaction – 10 horse pileup or something like that). But he doesn’t waste too much of his energy on his competitors.
In his initial charge he has managed to pull ahead of a couple of his fellows. Though not by much. He thinks furiously about what he can do to ensure his position, to push them farther back. An idea hits him and a smirk forms on his open mouth despite the pain that is growing in his lungs from his exertion. Forcefully (and deliberately as it was difficult to do while running full speed) he empties his bladder, sending a stream of urine behind him and onto those that had the misfortune of being in its path.
(With the penchant for fucking younger chicks and now the golden showers he has rightfully earned the nickname “R Kelly of Beqanna”.)
He passes over the finish line at full throttle and it takes him quite a few paces to slow his mass. He gulps for air and looks about him to see how he fared.
I M J U S T A S U C K E R F O R P A I N
Gunsynd is currently pretending to be someone else! He is now 15hh, hybrid, flea-bitten grey with clear blue eyes and goes by the name of Ginkgo. He will not have use of his traits while he is in this form. Please play as if he is simply the other persona unless your character has some sort of mind-reading. Thanks! <3
Beqanna had changed. And her changes had changed all of them, if they wanted it or not. Even Brynmor had changed, not his devotion to his home– although the Tundra was no longer there – or his love for Roan or the friendship he had built with Offspring. He also hadn’t had traits that could be taken from him, he had been born without and during her prior punishment Beqanna had already taken his kingdom granted wings. Before that he had given up his invisibility in favour of wings. With that all he could live, they could take those things away from him, as long as they didn’t touch his loved ones. Roan, Igni, Offspring, his brothers and sisters.
However, the former Tundra lord had never expected that he had grown so dependent on the sight that had been given to him. Djinni had been a miracle to him, restoring the sight that he had previously temporary given during Missy’s horrifying games. Upon that Brynmor had learned that his long friend had been nothing more than something he had created in his mind. But now, now his ability to see was taken from him, like the magic that had given it to him no longer existed. His first steps in the darkness had been the hardest, but he still couldn’t navigate around like he had managed to do before. He had been bumping into things and tripping over roots and rocks that he couldn’t see more than he had ever done before. His sight had really been a god given gift, a miracle.
Just like the others he had learned to earn points, whatever that precisely was. This race could give him some. It would be hard – which blind pony would even think of racing, competing with other horses – but at least it would make it possible for Brynmor to try. Try to contribute. He could use the given points to Offspring, to support his former king and dear friend’s cause. So he lines up with them, not exactly in the middle, to avoid the busiest area, but not on the side either. The graying stallion would need the closeness of others to determine where to go.
They start and he dashes off with them. His legs aren’t that long, but the lack of size makes him lighter than some of his fellow competitors. He’s hesitant though. Not only because he doesn’t really know if he’s going in the right way, but also because he’s afraid to trip or step into a hole and fall down. It must be a strange sight, seeing a pony race while not being able to go straight, sticking close to others and tripping over each obstacle he met.
By the time he reaches the finish his knees are bruised and scratched, even more than before, and he is sweating heavily due to his thick Tundra coat. Sides heaving, while he stands still to catch his breath. Even if he could see, he wouldn’t have to look around to know he probably hadn’t done a good job. After all, which blind pony would even try to race?
BRYNMOR
So much nonsense written here, but it was fun to do xD.
now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?
There was no need to wait. She had seen others moving, as if slapped in the behind from the magic whip that propelled them forward. Like little mannequins—the lot of them, they moved as if they lacked the willpower to not do so. The promise of being closer to regaining her dignity, her love—her sense of self—drove her such that she allowed the mannequins to dangle their strings above her head. She would dance to the tune of the racing bugle, if that is what they wished.
She said her Hail Mary and pulled forward, racing at an incomparable speed to what she was familiar with—finding that the world was against her. She was running the track, dodging the potatoes that were being thrown at her head. She bobbed this way and that, positive that they were out to kill her, to keep her from her end goal—she crossed her heart and was determined not to let those salty spuds keep her from victory.
Now, to be fair, Reagan is hallucinating. Of course there are no potatoes. This is worse. These are phantom potatoes. The national food repellant of Ireland, Reagan’s homeland, and the bane of her absolute existence. These were the kinds of potatoes that come in all sorts of odd lumpy little shapes, their many eyes on her, keeping her from her end goal. They blink, all innocent looking, all sorts of colors; red, brown, white and yellow. But then the evil ones show up, blue and purple little things, flying through the air, their target sure, going at Reggie’s head with all the speed that magic can do—because in Reagan’s world, there is always magic.
They go marching in squadrons, their spears little forks standing and aiding their movement, entirely intent on blocking Reagan’s path, and she squeals and tries to jump over them, finding that landing in the middle of them creates nothing more than a weapon of mashed potatoes. Swimming in the brown gravy of her mind, she finds herself in a mess of her own making, tripped up by the evil little purple potato invasion, kicking, trying to get back up on her legs to continue the race (For in real Beqanna-land, she is merely stuck in some tar). Rolling around in this sludge, the potatoes hop on her belly and point their tiny fork-spears at her throat, and she knows, that this is the end. Their invasion is complete. She closes her eyes, waits for the end… and then…
Woosh
A sudden sense of faith and holiness has hit her once more, almost as if the purity of soured cream has swept away the little evil starches and their little evil plots, and Reagan is able to get up again, race towards the finish line, gasping and heaving as she does so… before yelling to all around her. “BEWARE THE INVASION OF THE POTATO! IT IS THEY WHO HAVE STOLEN THE MAGICKS!”
There is little so terrifying as a blank slate. A surface wiped clean, free of poetry or mathematics. A promise – of things said; or a taunt – of things unsaid.
For her – child of magicians and monsters, a woman who has never been without these things – she feels the first thudding heartbeat of fear when the bones are ripped from her. She does not know why – she did not listen when the warning was decreed, for she is not the listening kind. She knows she now wields a horn, ink-black and honed sharp.
(She knows she would break it, would break everything, to have her bone-magic back.)
She is nothing, like this.
(She does not know how to act without the bones, without her monster-thing echoing every footfall.)
She sees a congregation, other horses stripped bare who cluster in a place that once held magic. So, she goes. She walks alone, and wonders if the ache will stop, if she will ever cease to feel like some vital organ has been torn from her.
She looks at none of them. They are all bare, like she is, but they are still nothing to her (arrogance was not stripped from her, though now, perhaps, it’s more foolish to wield – for she has nothing to back it up). She keeps her dark eyes straight forward, fixed on nothing.
“Give it back,” she says – demands – as if she were a voice that mattered, a voice that might be heard.
they say I must be one of the wonders of God's own creation, and as far as they see, they can offer no explanation.
Quite frankly, the adolescent really doesn't know much that's going on. Beqanna had turned upside down on her head. But quite thankfully, despite the loss of magic that rumored around the lands, Petya is aware that her delicate butterfly wings are now teal and black tipped FEATHERED wings!
WUT?
So with the help of a little ease dropping on some old ponies, complaining about aches and pains due to the loss of immortality (shoot, Carnage or Texas or Prague should be DUST particles by now) so the strange wings feel funny, too heavy but after some rough landing and crashes, Petya gets the hang of it. So as Petya is buzzing on by at a normal horses height, she catches wind (haha! get it?) of a race. The buckskin girl grins and does a little loopy-loop and makes off like the flight of the bumblebee and squeals before her little head gets to bobbing and she's puttering over to where this race is happening. Who says you need legs to race anyway?
When the fairy gives the shout to go (more like the crack of a teenage boy in puberty) the little buckskin is going! The feathered appendages are a little tougher to lifts but they catch air and soar the legless wonder over the other horses. She certainly did not have to worry about bu long into any other, eating dust, loosing visibility. Petya's dark hair streams out like a blag flag on a rather adorable pirate ship (the Jolly Roger, yarrr)...and has no legs. For a moment, she thinks she can hear her daddy cheering her on and so she's like -zoom!- Blue-green wings are swallowing air easily as she is above the others, moving passed them with ease as she focuses on the finish line.
In the bat of a lash, it's over! The little buckskin forgets how to land for a moment and briefly comes crashing in the ground, taking out the legs of another horse but with a smile! With a few little hops, she gets turned around and apologizes (seriously who would yell at her?) and Petya bounces herself over to see as other horses trail in afterwards. "Great job, everyone!" Despite her situation and the challenges, she still tries.
A little legless wonder, covered in dirt, and grinning like hell to have raced.
Elora was protected. She had two dads that helicoptered over her at about every moment of every day. Never before had the tiny bay filly ventured from their sight. She was ignorantly unaware of anything horrible the world had to offer. Somehow (without magic) Elora was able to sneak away from her two dads. Earlier she heard from a grumpy, old stallion about a race. He was a creepy stallion who was covered in wrinkles and stunk of mothballs. Sahm had scooted Elora away eagerly without her being able to question the stallion about the race. Though she was able to catch some information as to where and when it would be held. So like a mischievous child Elora escaped from her parent’s protective grasp and made a beeline for the race.
The small filly had not entirely thought out her plan. Since she had never been out on her own she had no idea where the quest grounds were. So she walked in a purposeful direction. Eventually Elora came upon a small, stumpy toad that seemed to be made up of mostly warts. ”Well hello there mister toad. Can you tell me where the quest lands are?” She said sweetly. The toad looked at her with bulging eyes. ”Rippit. Rippit Rippity Rippit. .” Mr. Toad stated. ”Oh I see…around the bend and past the trees that look like two flies stuck together. Great! Thank you Mr. Toad.” Elora smiled, bent down, and slapped a giant kiss on the toads head. With saliva now dripping from him the toad quickly hopped away.
Happily Elora switched her direction and skipped her way around the bend until she met up with the peculiar looking trees. It was there she stood, lost and confused once again. A bird fluttered down to Elora’s level. ”Hello there Miss Bird. Can you tell me the direction of the quest lands?” She said with a sweet smile. The bird flicked its wings and responded, ”Chirp, chirp, chirpity chirp.”
”Ah so across the stream and up the hill. Why thank you Miss Bird.” Elora shifted her shoulders happily and planted another sloppy kiss on the bird. The bird was now too soaked to fly so it simply hobbled away. Elora, pleased with herself once more, danced her way across the stream and up the hill.
Once at the top of the hill Elora could hear the cheers from the crowd, as the race was already under way. Even though it had already begun Elora was determined to be apart of it. She bolted down the hill and onto the course. Her legs began to churn the ground with a fury she had not yet ever experienced. Soon the tiny filly was only a few yards from the finish line. She yelled with great ferocity, a battle cry of her own making ”FOR MISTER TOAD AND MISS BIRD!!!!!” and with that she heaved her body onto the other side of the line
Winter seemed to drag on...making out dark girl a bit more annoyed than usual. Having been used to humidity and warmth all year every year, the loss of the Jungle was taking it's toll on Naga in a slightly different way other than breaking her big heart.
She had no winter coat....none.
Shivering and at a loss of where to go, she found herself taking a path she had never seen before. This new Beqanna was all switched around and flip flopped. She had to try to relearn how to get from place to place now. So far, the path she took seemed to get a little warmer.
Her dark face, only highlighted by a diamond shaped star and bright green eyes, hung level, using her keen sense of smell to indicate there seemed to be much life that passed through here not too long ago. Fresh hoofprints lead her way. She wondered where the prints would lead her. Another common land perhaps?
Nope.
NOPE.
She was wrong.
The scenery switched fast, and the noise was incomprehensible.
Where the hell am I? What the.....WHAT THE HELL IS ON MY BACK!? WHAT THE FRICK!!! HELP!!!
This was ridiculous! Tack? She realized she was completely covered in strange straps...a metal thing in her mouth, and a cinch around her belly. But the most horrifying thing to her was the creature perched on her back like some sort of creepy hairless goblin covered in weird colorful fabrics!!
Naga went into a full on frenzy of bucks and squeals. Attempting to get this freaking horrifying thing off her back. But, of course, another mutated looking hairless thing that stood on two legs took hold of her face and tried to man handle her around.
This pissed her off. She roared loudly pinning her jet black ears back and snapping at the mutant two legged freak with barred teeth. It made a loud noise and spoke in a language she didn't understand. The thing on her back slapped her rump with a piece of long leather, making a loud snap.
WELL I NEVER!!!!!
She was appalled beyond reason. What the hell was going on. Soon she noticed other horses...they smelled of Beqanna...it was then she realized she had been brought into this world by the fairies....the same damned fairies that stripped her of her home and panther shifting ability.
Oh hell no.... she growled...not pleased with this one bit. She knew this was their way of letting them duke it out for their traits back. A voice sounded, one she could understand.
"Alright racers....it's post time!!!! Welcome to the qualifying race for the Breeder's Cup!! You want to earn your traits back??? Well you better show us you are worthy of them!"
With that she noticed the two legged mutants were leading her and the others into a long line of metal shoots...
Hell no...they do NOT expect me to fit into that thing!?! I want to talk to the manager!!!! WHY DO I HAVE TO DO THIS DAMN IT!??!
They soon were shoved in and locked inside. Her chubby barrel barely fit through the cramped space. She began to panic, all the sounds of the others slamming into the bars and shrieking as well as the sound of the crowd of mutants in the stands. Her ears were on a swivel, her green eyes blazing with fear and confusion. She could fell the thing on top of her tighten it's grip on her. It felt like being attacked by a predator....she would know. She was one.
Suddenly a bell rang and gate in front of her blasted open. Her instincts kicked in and she made a flying leap of of the shoot. Her hooves hit the dirt hard as she barreled down the stretch. The thing on top of her smacked her again with the leather whip and yanked on the straps attached to the metal bar in her mouth, pushing her forward even faster. She was not a very big mare...height wise...so she could only go so fast with such a compact body and big belly. She has her father to thank for the pony-like features...
The thundering of hooves and the screams from the mutants surrounded her, making her want to run even faster. She kept up well with the group and even felt she was seeming to push forward past some of them. Hopefully she could be fast enough to manage to fly by all of them or at least get in with the front runners. She barreled on, each stride pushing harder than the last. The wind in her face felt good and a bit of competitiveness filled her...and it began...the smack talk.
Hey!!! Yeah you over there!!! Like being beat by a mare!?!?
OUT OF THE WAY!!! HEFTY MARE COMING THROUGH!! MOVE YOUR ASSES OVER!!!
You like dirt? CUZ YOU'RE GONNA EAT IT SON!!!!
BYE FELICIA!!!!!!
They blew around the last turn and started down the home stretch, the mutant crowd roared louder. the mutant on her back smacked her harder, she pinned her ears but kept running. She could see the wire...she needed to push faster....and faster....ignoring the competition now, she was only focused on crossing the finish line....flashes of light blinded her as she closed in, she could hear cheering now, the creature on her back patting her on the neck and making noises.
Did she do it!?!? Did she win?!? Did she get third, fourth, or fifth??? Or did she die down and lose completely....she didn't know....but she hoped the announcer would give her her answer...and if so...MAYBE THAT WOULD MEAN THIS NASTY THING WOULD GET OFF HER AND STOP SEXUALLY ASSAULTING HER RUMP!!! Gross pervy thing....get the frick out...
Romek had the race in the bag. He knew it, everybody knew it. After all, he was the fastest horse that ever lived etc etc etc
No. The real issue here was the entry fee. After all, horses are not well known for their ability to get a job, invest in stocks, or y’know, even carry money around, what with their lack of pockets.
And to get past this small problem, the spotted stallion would have to pull off the biggest heist in Beqanna history.
STEP ONE: Acquire target.
Gemstone Ridge – of old times, and of legend.
The richest Beqannian land.
STEP TWO: Make a fire.
This one may be trickier due to the fact he has hooves and not an ounce of magic within him capable of that.
STEP THREE: Burn some shit.
Toasty gemstones. Get some of that good shit ™ gold ore.
STEP FOUR: Forge.
Maybe he could get someone else to help him with that.
STEP FIVE: Get the gold to places.
That takes quite a lot of effort. Gold is heavy. He’s entirely too lazy for that. And he has no pockets.
…
Y’know what, he’ll just get pops to spot him some cash again.
This is Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm stepping through the door and I'm floating in a most peculiar way. And the stars look very different today. For here am I sitting in a tin can. Far above the world, Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do.
The deep purple stallion is currently sitting in the stands with a few of the unattended ladies. They were trusted to be good, talk amongst themselves but within a moment,s time and accompanied by a rather dashing smile, Bowie sides right up to some of the little tarts.
As he is chit chatting, glittery tail flicking occasionally at the dull interests of these little lasses but if he is able to coo one into showing her bits...well, he was not a quitter! Bowie is close to their ears, saying what is right and plastering a look of hurt across his features when they were offended at something he said (Bowie would just apologize and act like it was all in good fun.).
Chill out, you birds.
The sound of hooves and flying mud catches the dark purple of his eyes. A devilish smirk tugs at his lips as he looks beneath the white sparkle of his forelock (quite sexy ). With a wink and a nudge, Bowie scrambles from the ladies (as they bid him goodbye with waving handkerchiefs and large hats), he has a last sip of a mint julep and is bounding among the other horses.
With being well rested (and slightly drunk) our sexy hero is grabbing wind with those brilliantly sparkled wings and carrying himself right along over them. It is when the finish line is closing in does Bowie let himself waft down gracefully into the filth of the track to pass over in a fabulous blur of purple and glitter,
). With a wink and a nudge, Bowie scrambles from the ladies (as they bid him goodbye with waving handkerchiefs and large hats), he has a last sip of a mint julep and is bounding among the other horses.