"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
Excitement alluded him, it was always out of reach. There was always the mild quickness of breath at the start but the projects ran dry before it could reach a perfect crescendo. Dull. Worthless. The slate wiped clean, he begins again. Anew. And this time the plans were bigger. Better. This time nothing will slow down their execution.
Slits of blood. Skin of snow. Soft downy feathers quietly ruffling in the darkness. A ghostly figure that slips between the trees. The world had changed but he had not. Where he had disappeared to was a mystery. He would never tell. There had been plenty of time though to observe and think. To figure out exactly what he wanted.
He wants to pull them apart, skin and bone, explore their inner cavities. As always he wants to know how they tick. What makes them choose what they choose. To understand the effect of magic within each one. He wants to push them as far as they can go. He wants to break them apart to understand life. Nobody knows why. He finds the screaming, the tears, and the groans of pain exhilarating. They get him off more than the simple act of sex ever will. Not that he minds that either. Pleasure can be found in many forms.
This time will be different because he will control the strings. Oh it hadn’t been so bad working for this Queen and that one. They had all intrigued him in their own way and had often found him just as interesting. Interesting enough to let him do most of what he wanted. Yet there had always been restraints. What would it be like, he wonders, if everyone played by my rules? If the slave pens had been used to their full potential… If his experiments could be taken to new heights? There will have to be others, he knows. Willing and unwilling. But they will come. They always do.
Wings flare casting a pale dappled light as they catch between feathers. The ghost has left the shadows. A sharp raw piercing whinny that almost sounds like a scream, it rips through the air, breaking through the muffled quiet of the forest. And as they come forward his lips curl into that familiar snarl. It takes a minute to realize he's smirking. ”Aren’t you all just so…” He pauses, looking them over. ”Bored?” A single hoof striking against a rock before he casually flings it out, not caring if he hits someone. ”Doesn’t it bother you? That wasted potential…” Words that slid out with a hiss and end in a sigh. ”I’m sick of being bored.” The ruby depths of his eyes harden as they narrow on them. ”Time to change some things I think.”
Black blood that globs out slowly, atching those last few consequential beats of one’s heart as it is being squeezed of all last traces of life. Deimos had been pulled from hell from some unknown consequence, cursed by the fairies, and then left with no purpose. He had clung to the outskirts of insanity when he had taken up residence in Pangea, only to watch it sink. His was a heaviness that lingers with the sing of immortaliy. Of undeath.
A rock strikes out and smacks the side of Deimos’ head. He growls, settling his eyes on a pale figure that casts a white shadow. He growls, narrowing his blood-red eyes to catch glimpse of the perpetrator. He talks to himself, the war-machine notices, muttering senseless words of power and boredom. He is mad. Crazed. He has also cast a stone at the wrong man.
A seething heat filters from Deimos, as he phases into nothing, and then steps out of the void once more, coming right at the ghost who did not look so undead… indeed, he looked very much alive. Blood is pouring down the side of Deimos’ head, and he says nothing as he walks up to the winged beast testing his mettle. The stench upon his hide is telling. Cross. So that cunt of a stallion had managed to produce stallion even more powerful than himself. There were few friends that he had had, Cross had been one of the few. The bloody battle when the not-yet King of the Tundra had discovered that Deimos had driven his mother Crazy. Ophelia.
He gives a great breath then, his mind going back those hundred years, where he knew her body to be. Long dead. Long gone. Days when magic ran rampant and power was ripe for the taking. His body goes hard. His wings. Those talons shiver. They want to play. They want to kill. The son of mars finds that he cannot control them any longer. The loss. The boredom. Death unwarranted. Power unrequited. They are all gone.
Gone.
GONE.
GONE!
Deimos flares his nostrils and screams, reaching back with the grasping fingers of his talons, punching right through Gryff’s chest, grabbing him by the heart and squeezing. The action brings them chest to chest, and a hot breath rides over the Ghost’s back, his voice dangerously close to a whisper, though laced with whiskey and death. “You know better than to fuck around, boy,” he says. His talon fingers squeeze again, causing them both to jolt just a bit, and Deimos rolls back his eyes in ecstacy. It has been so long since he grabbed someone by the throat, felt their blood on his body. Too long since… Since…
Ophelia.
“I think your death will cure my boredom well enough” Clenched yellow teeth spit acid. “What plan do you have in place…that will stop me from dropping the son of No Crosses Count right where he stands?”
It had been just a little fling, just a casual toss of a sharp edged rock. It had certainly gotten someones attention. Pissed or not, he wants his attention. He has certainly cast this stone at the right man. The copper tang of blood is in the air as it stains the face of the creature before him. Involuntarily he licks his lips, his desire exposed in the red of his eyes. Now look at this… Thing. This magic. It is raw and brutal and unkempt. It runs wild and rampant. How many had he tried to coax to become exactly this? This fury of unhinged magic, capable of the most beautiful destruction.
Ophelia means nothing to him, a name in a list of ancestors. His mother and father were far more amusing stories however. He knows nothing of this beast’s run ins with his family over the test of time, the way they were woven and tied together regardless if they like it or not. Apparently the story wasn’t over, perhaps it had truly just begun. Ophelia was nothing but a prelude, setting up for a far more vivid and brighter ending.
He can see the stallion unravel before him and he says nothing, does not react. Waits with bated breath, excitement in his eyes. Oh the pain is excruciating but he is laughing, laughing as Deimos squeezes his heart and kills him. Blood bubbles at the corner of his lips, the contrast grotesquely beautiful as it drips down his white chest. Wings flare but he stands and takes it, his gaze cold even as his strength slowly seeps from his body. Pain is nothing. Fear is overrated. ”I…” He laughs, crimson foam on pale lips. ”Am nothing like my father.” And he knows that this… This is what it comes down to. Cross was weak but he is not. His own madness he wears like a badge of honor. Surely that too is enticing. Ophelia it whispers.
”Such a waste of power…. But I can help you with that.” He gasps as his gaze never wavers. Deimos has magic and infamy so what could Gryffen possibly give him? An outlet of course. Purpose. That which he is lacking and won’t admit he wants… or needs.
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
To be honest, walking along a quiet forest path, one does not expect to stumble upon a murder scene. Certainly I had not. How does one react to such a thing?
That seems to be the question of the hour.
Let me start from the beginning. You see, I had simply been having a quiet stroll, meandering through the trees and humming a soft tune to myself, when a sound distracted me. First the murmur of voices, followed by the sounds of a scuffle and the crunch of… something. My young body is swift and lithe, able to wend easily and quickly through the trees, so like any curious young horse, I go to see what could possibly be happening.
It takes me a minute to comprehend the situation, but when I do, a gasp escapes me dark lips. Had I put a little more thought into it, I might have turned around and left. This is clearly none of my business and just as clearly not something I care to get tangled up in. Unfortunately, despite my extra eye, I don't have that much foresight.
Leaping forward, I thump against the flank of the larger, scarred stallion. “Stop that!” I shriek, though there really is no hope of my much smaller frame making too much of an impact. “You… are… killing… him!” Each word is punctuated by a thump, largely ineffective perhaps, but the best I can manage in the situation.
Giohde
I'm not sure what this is, but clearly she needs someone to torment her :|
Lurking within the desolate trees of the proclaimed Forests he witnessed a creature of unnatural sorts... meandering. The rusty hues of her blotched coat contrasting against the blackness surrounding them. An eerie haze began to settle below the intertwined branches overhead. He crept silently aside her. The blackness of his hide matching the shadows he waded in. He was quite intrigued with the characteristics of her face. One could not look past her extra amenity....
Her ears bent as noises perked her interest. He had none in the happenings ahead. His only interest was her. Slinking along he keeps pace with her as she jets forwards. Colliding with another as words are shouted. A slight hiss sizzles up his throat as he observes her malicious attempt at intervening. Blood red eyes shift to the other parties gathered. A ghostly stallion with matching red eyes stands before a contrasted blackness. They must have been mingling before the assault, or attempted at least.
He did not waver from his concealed position. His ink blotched hind looked as if sunlight was filtering onto the forests floors. His only true giveaway was the slight glow of his red eyes in the stillness of the trees...
Deimos grips onto his victim, squeezing his heart, bringing him up into the air so the red eyed waste could look his own death in the eyes. A low, menacing whisper cloaks his words as he responds to Gryffen, daring him to refute the Son of Mars. “Watch your tongue, you pompous bag of ass” he says. He barely has enough time rescinding his grip on the man’s heart and retrieving it from his chest, before a girl walks through the forest, and deigns to thump him on the flank. You are killing him! she says, shrieking unattractively. Deimos drops Gryffen to the ground, having swung his head to where the girl with this third eyes stands. He snorts a hot angry breath outward, pushing back this little thing from his body. “If I wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t need to look him in the eye,” he hisses.
his wings fading into nothingness as the bones crack and his pelt is replaced with black leathery scales. The war machine takes steps toward her, one clawed foot after another. His body is somewhere between a lizard and a dinosaur, his forked tongue wrapping around Giohde’s neck and pulling her in to the commune of their circle. You need bodies? Deimos whispers to Gryff’s mind. Here is someone expendable.
Behind them all watching this, is one that piques Deimos’ interest. Thinking he was sly. Thinking he was special. He was not. A hot angry growl sits inside Deimos belly as brimstone charcoal reigns down in the direction of where Ouija is attempting to hide. Come out, Come out. I have a game we can play, if you can be nice. A dark voice echoes inside the black appaloosa’s head. It is Deimos.
He has grown bored. He will not say it allowed, and he will not allow the son of Cross to make a mockery of him. But feeling the girl so close to him, feeling the shudder of inflicting his will upon the weak.
He is learning, every day. Little Longclaw is no longer little - a stallion nearly grown with the faint hints of youth still evident in those long legs, that yet-to-fill-out chest and barrel. His mind is elastic as ever and it soaks up every encounter, most notably the joint effort of Deimos and his sire to have him continue down a path he may not fully understand yet. The beach had been a bloody, terrible ordeal, but now as he strolls along the worn paths of the Forest with pale blue butterflies of flame to circle his head, he learns what cost power has. He’d been willing to pay the price back then, Rapture had the glory, after all, the sight-without-eyes, and as he draws up to a stop where they’ve gathered he shudders with something akin to buyers remorse.
“Deimos is right.” The glimmering stallion barks, gliding past the black creature quivering in the nearby bushes. “You should probably shut your mouth.” He directs with a subtle flick of the eyes to the pale ring-leader. The butterflies converge and fizzle out dully; Longclaw had never been one for theatrics, especially now as he settles into this rather unceremonious gathering. From his viewpoint, they’d make a terrible crew. “You’re too weak to make waves, end of story.” He strikes bluntly, turning his attention away from the red-eyed ghost to the mare.
“Maybe, if you’re a good little boy, you can beg us to come along and help.” He speaks, entranced by the sight of that slick, pink tongue wrapped so effortlessly around her slender throat. With a slow blink he parts his lips, sighs, and decides against any action by turning his head back to the original source of disruption. “Not that you’ll be of much help anyways.”
They lack finesse. Wayward souls, no instruction. As beautiful as their destruction is, it’s messy. Sloppy. Brutish bullies that throw their weight around and think themselves “evil”. Simple minded thugs. Darkness use to be romantic. It use to be more exciting, enticing. They have lost the meaning of the word. The darkest one’s he had ever worked with had been intelligent, thought outside the box. Subtlety was a lost art. They could learn much from it. Nobody is scared of any of them. The fear they create is dull and flat, it lacks layers. It lacks respect. Where was the terror they claim to cause? It’s lacking in this world and the winged red eyed stallion fears them least of all.
Red eyes catch a mirror image in the woods but he does not give away the other’s location, knowing magic will find him anyways. The girl is… Unusual. Sweet and kind. His absolute favorite. She’s pleading for his life, how quaint. Deimos had already released him, it seems he had struck a nerve. Good, that was the point. As the dark fingers release it’s grip on his heart, he exhales deeply. Wings flare out behind him, a mockery of a beautiful snowy angel. A grimace finds his lips as Deimos turns his attention to the three eyed mare, flinging insults and invading her. A sigh escapes them, they were all so ruthless. ”Manners.” He chides lightly, looking slightly amused. Of course he would have rather approached her in a much different way, thanking her for saving him. Luring her in, earning her trust. It was so delicious to break them then, not to mention the usefulness that trust can give. The hard dark monster has forgotten this, he is too wild now. Raining dark matter on the eavesdropping eyes of the forest. He must remember if his greater plans can ever be accomplished.
”Not as expendable as you might think..” He murmurs low enough that the magic man will hear, his glowing eyes lingering on the extra one that sits strikingly on her forehead. And then the pompous young one appears. Oh there’s a use for that too. He thinks he’s riding high when he’s only lingering on Deimos’s coattails. As the younger stallion sidles by, he merely regards him cooly. He is too young to remember any of Gryffen’s former accomplishments, his “waves” as Longclaw calls them. In time, he will learn and more importantly, he will remember. For now he simply ignores him and his haughty words. The adults were speaking.
”My dear…” He address’s the mare who he assumes to be most frightened and therefore still vulnerable to suggestion. Not completely lost to them yet. ”Unfortunately you stumbled across an argument amongst friends.” His voice is soft and silky. ”Forgive my enthusiastic partner. He can’t help himself sometimes.” A low chuckle as smooth strands of white snap against his hindquarters, an attempt to snap Deimos out of his daze. She could be useful, he thinks. Assuming he will hear it as he had already invaded his mind before. He wonders what the purpose is behind that third eye. As much as he wants to pluck it out and add to his ever expanding collectibles, perhaps it’s purpose is more important latched to her forehead.
”I have an idea…” He pauses, knowing that Deimos may have already dug it from his mind. A soft shrug of his shoulder, he doesn’t plan on keeping it secret for long anyways. ”Something fun. A little more challenging. Putting your skills to good use…” He now directs his attention to the little prick who had pranced in behind Deimos, his facial expression unreadable. ”But if that doesn’t pique your interest, you're welcome to fuck off. Since you seem to have such better things to do…”
06-26-2017, 09:25 PM (This post was last modified: 06-27-2017, 07:02 AM by Ouija.)
Apparently he had missed his invite to the meeting of those too twisted and cruel for the typical Beqanna. Their evenings consumed with plotting and scheming. The red eyed ghost stole his attention. Perhaps it was their likeness in thoughts... as well as their eyes.
Ouija watched from the shadows as the demon plucked his treasure from the earth. Ready to throw her to the wolves. He did not act impulsively. No, that was not his way. He wished to dig deep into their minds. Their souls. To grip their deepest fears and bring them to light. That was his game...
So he waited. Waited until the beast turned to him. His form more monster than equine. A menacing grin crept across his lips. Blazing red eyes narrowed, nearly disappearing, as he watched. The heated embers fell down upon him. A slight burning sensation as a few landed upon his back. Ah! That feeling made him think of his stint with the fire licked girl Jinju... Sweet Jinju. He shuddered in pleasure as a cackle rose from within his throat. I like games...
Soon they were joined by another. Crimson eyes beheld a sparkly thing of the prettiest shade of indigo... Oh and look, butterflies... How fitting. He snickered as lips curled exposing his canines. What sort of trickery will we see now, he wondered. Quietly he lurked nearer to get a better view... Behold... Words. Threats. Bore.
Attention shifted back to his three-eyed treasure still within the midst of the grouping. The ghost spoke kindly to her, attempting to coax her out of any scare she may have. Twisting her mind to believe she was safe. Was she? Hardly
His black horns twisted to catch the invitation of the ghost. A congregation of like minds for a grander purpose. Surely Ouija must stay, for this sounds like a fun game....
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
The minute the black beast turns on me, I know I've made a terrible mistake. What in the hell was I thinking? Clearly the white stallion had been in no real trouble, and I had just merrily stumbled my way into a kidnapping.
The minute that monster turns on me, I hastily back pedal. Not quick enough though, apparently. Not with a bloody lizardy snake tongue like that (and hoo, boy, did I mention he is ugly? Downright hideous. But what can you expect from an evil gross monster? It's practically cliche, right?).
My gasp is quickly followed by a rather inelegant choking sound as I am dragged unceremoniously back towards him, his absurdly long, icky tongue around my slender neck. I dig my feet into the earth, but it's a rather futile gesture, and I end up simply leaving deep furrows in the loose top cover of the forest floor. With my odd, amber eyes wide, my heart beating a rapid, uneven rhythm inside my chest, I simply stare at him in consternation and shock for several long moments, both fear and alarm making itself swiftly known inside my breast.
My first thought though, when I can think at all, is simply, “Well, how rude.” Of course, I can't really say as much, given the chokehold he has on my neck. My next thought is simply, “Fuuuuuuuuck,” but by then I am not-so-safely ensconced in the midst of their circle and the hold slackens enough for me to at least breathe.
To be quite honest, I wasn't really paying much attention to what the white stallion said after admitting to being friends with the horrid fellow (one who apparently has a penchant for trying to kill his friends?). Admittedly, my mind is a bit frazzled at the moment, and mostly I'm just wondering how the hell I got myself into this mess. And forget about paying attention to what anyone else says or who might have joined us. Christ, I hadn't even noticed I was being followed here (and seriously, can you say creepy?).
So when there comes a small lull in the conversation, I clear my throat, instantly regretting the action. It had been rather well bruised. Still, I need to do something about excusing myself from this situation. “So, uh, I think I should go. It seems I have… made a mistake.” I start trying to edge backwards, hoping maybe I can just kinda slink out without much fuss. “I will just, uh, leave you to your business.”
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