we were caught up and lost in all of our vices
in your pose as the dust settled around us
in your pose as the dust settled around us
Even though there was fire at his back and the skies bled magician’s blood over their heads, Vanquish heeds none of it as he continues to trample down onto the tiger that had taken a child’s life – that is if he is still there, or still breathing. An elephant’s roar ripped through his ears as it shoulders through the pines around them, headed with tusks lowered for some enemy he didn’t turn to look for. A swell of strength fattened his veins as he catches the gaze of a chestnut mare whose eyes were locked on him and he gives her a slight nod – filing her face away in his memory for gratitude given on another day.
Bother had sealed his bleeding, thorn-covered sides and salved his burns. But she had not relit his stamina nor refilled his adrenaline the way Prague did now as her voice floats into his head. He doubts she is listening, reaching with her powers for his response at that moment but he calls to her anyway, “is Yael okay?!” He hadn’t seen his Golden Rose since her shadow left the sands to reign fire and scorn upon the Chamber. Another decade, another war.
The Nightwalker thinks himself war-drunk as Ianto lands at his side but when he calls out to him, the black king can’t help a knight’s smile spreading wide on his face. The old Tundra king had been a good friend to the titan for as many years as it had been since he had last laid eyes upon him. “A good day for battle, is it not?” He says, joking amongst the crumbling of lives and coming of death around them.
There is a great rupture in the sky and the pines sway in vigil of their blood-bringing, this was not war – this was bedlam and bloodlust in its purest forms. Apparently, this anarchy is enough to entice a myriad of slumbering magicians and royalty who’s crowns had been passed on ten-fold over to breathe again just to join in.
Warship fades and Lyris is taken before a great blizzard comes to make his joints ache and hooves a bit heavier, the Valley king takes to the sky and he scowls, coward! Creatures of shadow slither across the ice and one wraps its intangible claws around his haunch, burning Set’s magic into his skin. He fills his large lungs with burning, smoky air before he encases himself in a thick layer of sand – holding it against his skin as long as he can before it crumbles to the ground and the shadow creature had moved on. Although his haunch is tattered and bleeding that is of no concern as his golden dragon moves above the clashing mortals below her. Relief more restorative than any healing calmed the blood in his veins as he lays upon Yael as she sends her own creatures – blindingly bright to grapple with the dark that plagued those that actually fucking bothered to join the fight.
Any reprieve that had come with Yael’s arrival was swiftly wrenched from him and replaced with an all-encompassing, roaring anger at her disclosure. Nyxia, only a child, but not just a child - his granddaughter, was dead at the hand of the Valley. A hungering hatred purged any benevolence that would have ever crossed the Nightwalker and despite the sorrow welling in his heart he laughs. And he laughs because it was at this moment that he decides that Demian would answer to his (or his kingdom’s) crimes on the Plains.
A raven comes and although he listens to what the shrieking says he reaches out with gnashing teeth at it, biting nothing but air as he bellows his discontent. Turning back, he sends two bedrock golems to Feyre and Ianto’s sides before he moves for the assembling in the forest.
When he reaches them, Lagertha and Straia are accompanied by a stallion he saw in the fray. The Percheron’s ears are pinned and his wings tucked tightly against his sides, he strides to Lagertha’s side – his eyes traveling between the two Chamberlings and a sneer smothered his face in obvious disgust. “A little fucking late for a talk, don’t you think?” He thunders at Straia, his head held high as he locks his gaze on Killdare – an invitation. He can’t help the growl that rumbles in his throat, his anger was well over boiling point now – his thoughts smothered in ways to make Demian suffer. “What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, jaws snapping in fury, “but since you’ve summoned me here, use one of those ravens to tell Demian to ready himself to meet me on the Plains.” Vanquish would have his reckoning.
This hadn’t even been their fight, the Deserts’ nor the Jungle’s, but it was they that had fought and lost the most. Mast hadn’t even troubled himself to bring his ass to the fight, “and have one go find Mast and tell him as long as he sits upon that throne the Deserts are no ally to the Gates.” Rage slithered over his body in a sheen of hot sweat and his skin prickled with cactus thorn as he grew angrier at the thought. They had willingly thrown themselves into war to uphold their alliances but they were no strong-arm for a weak will to use and stand-by idle to watch with nary a scratch and only a story to tell. “Now, once again, what the fuck do you want?”
Bother had sealed his bleeding, thorn-covered sides and salved his burns. But she had not relit his stamina nor refilled his adrenaline the way Prague did now as her voice floats into his head. He doubts she is listening, reaching with her powers for his response at that moment but he calls to her anyway, “is Yael okay?!” He hadn’t seen his Golden Rose since her shadow left the sands to reign fire and scorn upon the Chamber. Another decade, another war.
The Nightwalker thinks himself war-drunk as Ianto lands at his side but when he calls out to him, the black king can’t help a knight’s smile spreading wide on his face. The old Tundra king had been a good friend to the titan for as many years as it had been since he had last laid eyes upon him. “A good day for battle, is it not?” He says, joking amongst the crumbling of lives and coming of death around them.
There is a great rupture in the sky and the pines sway in vigil of their blood-bringing, this was not war – this was bedlam and bloodlust in its purest forms. Apparently, this anarchy is enough to entice a myriad of slumbering magicians and royalty who’s crowns had been passed on ten-fold over to breathe again just to join in.
Warship fades and Lyris is taken before a great blizzard comes to make his joints ache and hooves a bit heavier, the Valley king takes to the sky and he scowls, coward! Creatures of shadow slither across the ice and one wraps its intangible claws around his haunch, burning Set’s magic into his skin. He fills his large lungs with burning, smoky air before he encases himself in a thick layer of sand – holding it against his skin as long as he can before it crumbles to the ground and the shadow creature had moved on. Although his haunch is tattered and bleeding that is of no concern as his golden dragon moves above the clashing mortals below her. Relief more restorative than any healing calmed the blood in his veins as he lays upon Yael as she sends her own creatures – blindingly bright to grapple with the dark that plagued those that actually fucking bothered to join the fight.
Any reprieve that had come with Yael’s arrival was swiftly wrenched from him and replaced with an all-encompassing, roaring anger at her disclosure. Nyxia, only a child, but not just a child - his granddaughter, was dead at the hand of the Valley. A hungering hatred purged any benevolence that would have ever crossed the Nightwalker and despite the sorrow welling in his heart he laughs. And he laughs because it was at this moment that he decides that Demian would answer to his (or his kingdom’s) crimes on the Plains.
A raven comes and although he listens to what the shrieking says he reaches out with gnashing teeth at it, biting nothing but air as he bellows his discontent. Turning back, he sends two bedrock golems to Feyre and Ianto’s sides before he moves for the assembling in the forest.
When he reaches them, Lagertha and Straia are accompanied by a stallion he saw in the fray. The Percheron’s ears are pinned and his wings tucked tightly against his sides, he strides to Lagertha’s side – his eyes traveling between the two Chamberlings and a sneer smothered his face in obvious disgust. “A little fucking late for a talk, don’t you think?” He thunders at Straia, his head held high as he locks his gaze on Killdare – an invitation. He can’t help the growl that rumbles in his throat, his anger was well over boiling point now – his thoughts smothered in ways to make Demian suffer. “What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, jaws snapping in fury, “but since you’ve summoned me here, use one of those ravens to tell Demian to ready himself to meet me on the Plains.” Vanquish would have his reckoning.
This hadn’t even been their fight, the Deserts’ nor the Jungle’s, but it was they that had fought and lost the most. Mast hadn’t even troubled himself to bring his ass to the fight, “and have one go find Mast and tell him as long as he sits upon that throne the Deserts are no ally to the Gates.” Rage slithered over his body in a sheen of hot sweat and his skin prickled with cactus thorn as he grew angrier at the thought. They had willingly thrown themselves into war to uphold their alliances but they were no strong-arm for a weak will to use and stand-by idle to watch with nary a scratch and only a story to tell. “Now, once again, what the fuck do you want?”
VANQUISH
dragon king of the deserts
@[demian]
@[Straia]
@[Lagertha]
@[Mast]
@[Yael]
@[Bother]
@[Killdare]
@[Feyre]
@[Ianto]