"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
09-14-2015, 02:34 PM (This post was last modified: 09-16-2015, 02:06 PM by Carnage.)
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He came to them in swaths of nebulae, bred into the land colors and celestial markings. He enjoys it, a mortal pleasure that crossed over into his divinity. But the time has ended, and the color is gone, replaced with the more familiar gray, a color of stormclouds.
(He has a flair for the theatric, but always returns to this state – to the form of the horse he once was, the color of dull skies, as if he’s one of them, mortal.)
He looks now for other entertainments, and thinks of his lair, now empty. He will return there, soon enough – his wastelands are more home to him than Beqanna is, and he tires of the land, it’s failed to entertain him.
Still, it’s been a lovely enough trip, and looks to take a bit of it with him.
Souvenirs, if you will.
The lair does get ever so lonely.
Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war – but what slips out are not dogs, not anymore, but hounds. Sleek and tapered and wrong, strange, magic-built creatures (they had once been wolves, but that was generations ago). They are large and rangy, and they are hungry. They cry and bay to one another, eager, as the command comes: hunt.
They obey, as they always do, and thus the dogs of war are set loose.
He expects the hellhounds to bring in some, but others, he hopes, will come willingly. He broadcasts his desires like a radio signal: come, and be transformed.
Others still, he will take himself.
He grins, a broad and lazy smile, and their dark god reigns.
NOTES:
This is pretty much going to be a “get captured and tortured in Carnage’s lair.” This means you consent to having Carnage’s mark branded on your horse somewhere (you can choose where). It’s basically going to be like Saw (I guess. I have never watched Saw), I’ll impart some scenarios and you choose how your character reacts. This quest is pretty much for mental trauma only. There might be traits or something at the end but really, I want you to enter it because you want your character broken/traumatized, not because you want something shiny at the end. Defects will occur. They will be permanent. However, there will be some leeway. I’m just saying, don’t expect your horse to escape unscathed.
TO ENTER:
You have 48 hours to reply. In the reply, describe how your character ends up in the lair. Did the hellhounds catch them? Are they a weird masochist? Did Carnage hunt their child down and they offered themselves instead, a la Beauty and the Beast? Something else entirely? THERE ARE NO LIMITS. The point is, describe how your character ends up there, but stop with them entering the lair (the lair is underground, dank, the hellhounds live there, it stinks, there’s bones, etc. – your typical evil villain underground lair).
No limits on entries, but one character per player.
Round II will hopefully be posted by Wednesday, 2:00 PM CST but I do most of this at my real person job so no promises.
If you have any questions, email me at acmrshll@gmail.com.
It might go without saying but this whole quest has a major trauma/abuse trigger warning.
09-14-2015, 03:15 PM (This post was last modified: 09-14-2015, 03:17 PM by Wayra.)
not all who wander are lost
Wayra had become used to strange things. The Chamber’s beating heart, the eternally burning tree, these had come to seem mundane, not boring exactly, but normal. She wasn’t really sure when it happened, and she had no idea how it happened. But, it seemed like one day she was her father’s little blue daughter, and the next she was among the Chamber’s tall, tall pines and friends with monsters.
She was not delusional. She knew that there was as much bite as there was bark to her new home. She had begun to feel comfortable, but she knew she should not assume she is safe. The problem is, that is exactly what she had begun to assume. She had met with nothing but kindness from the Chamber’s monsters, aside from one awful magician. Yet, as rude as the magic man had been, all he did was dump in her a frozen lake. Erebor had even been kind enough to ensure the lake she fell in was merely cold, not even frozen.
So it is not so terrible, all in all. At least, she keeps telling herself that.
So, it was with no sense of impending doom that Wayra explored the pine forest. She had done this before, but she had never gone so far. On this particular day, she went nearly to the border. She felt Atrox’s heartbeat grow fainter, and fainter, and eventually she hardly felt it at all. It was only then she realized how far she had gone, and how unsure she was of how to get back.
And, something else as well. She could have sworn something was watching her.
Wayra spun around, eyes wide, but there was nothing there. The blue girl laughed a little. And here she had thought herself brave, unafraid of the Chamber’s forests. Yet, she still jumped at nothing. Still amused, she pushed on, skirting the far edge of her home.
Yet, as she walked, and even as she laughed at herself, she could have sworn something was watching her. Without really knowing why, and without realizing she had done it, Wayra broke into a run.
The girl pounded through the woods, running faster and faster, the pine branches tearing at her skin. Behind her she felt their eyes, yet she dared not look. She dared not look because she could hear them now. They were snarling and snapping and soon they would be upon her.
Just when she was sure her heart would burst Wayra screamed, loud and frantic, for she was falling. Just like poor little Alice, Wayra was tumbling down, down, down and above her the wolves were laughing cackling like hyenas. But, worst of all, was below her. Below her was his lair, though she hardly knew it.
For some reason his dreams had escalated in their violence. They had always been bad, always tormenting him to the point where he would find himself exhausted and staring at the sunrise, his eyelids not once closing. Since his father’s return, he thought he would finally be able to sleep and not dream. He had been wrong. They had intensified, Chernobyl who was always the star in these nightmares, was now joined by another. This stallion is gray but his eyes are black and filled with stars. He never says a word but just watches with amusement written on the lines of his face. Almost silently egging the murdering stallion on. Tonight he awakens shaking violently, for in this dream the other stallion had finally spoken. The words filled him with instant dread. ”Tonight. I’m coming.”
Pupils are wide, showing the whites of his eyes as he looks around him fearfully. His chest heaves as he scrambles to gain his bearings and rises off the ground. No, he’s back in reality. His gold flecked eyes take in his surroundings as he tries to catch his breath, not realizing that his chestnut coat is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and that he is still trembling. Everything is calm. The moon is full once more and the Gates is bathed in a cool silver light. The world is silent. He sighs softly, closing his eyes and trying to calm his still racing heart. It had felt so real. As if the stallion had been standing over him and breathing right into his ear. Like he had really been there but when he had awoken, there was nothing. Still he can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching him, that he’s not alone.
Trying to lose the unease and fear that wraps around him, smothering him, he moves across the kingdom and sets out towards the Meadow. It’s not the first time he has taken these nighttime ventures and it usually helps settle him. For the first few minutes of his journey he is so distracted by what has happened that he doesn’t quite realize that something is off. Suddenly his legs slow and he looks around him cautiously. The night is still silent…. Too silent. No crickets singing or frogs chirping their lullabies. Not even a single owl hoots in the distance. No wind rustles through the leaves of the trees. There is nothing but absolute silence. A growing sense of dread begins to spread through his body and he breaks into a trot, the sound of his hoofbeats sounding unnatural in the still air. Drawing attention his way, a moving target.
Just get to the Meadow, there will be others. All will be well. He focuses on this mantra and as he repeats it, the moon seems to be blotted out of the sky. Blackness surrounds him. He comes to a stop and gives a nervous whinny. Wheeling around, he tries to turn back but he can’t see the path. He is lost in blackness. Why is this happening to me? He thinks…. And then a voice seems to pop up in his head with an answer. A gravely amused voice. ”Why does it always happen to you Ledger? Because you deserve it.””No!” He cries out, wheeling again as he tries to find some escape from the shadows. ”I don’t deserve this at all!” His outburst is met with silence and he thinks maybe he has chased it away. That’s when the growls begin to surround him. One to his left, one to the right, and one behind him. Straight panic courses through his veins as he turns around to see what is making the noise. The moon slips from the blackness and he can see three sets of glowing red eyes. As they break from the shadows, his panic grows. They look like wolves but are much larger than an average wolf. Their snouts are long and semi German Shepherd esque. Their fangs are yellow and sharp and are currently exposed as the Hellhounds snarl at him and start to close in. Spittle flys from their curled lips and there is only one thing he can do. Run.
With a shrill whinny of fear escaping from his lips, he sets out in a blind gallop with the hellhounds hot on his hooves. Branches claw at his sides and back, slap in his face and threaten to take his eyes out but he never stops galloping. Dirt explodes beneath his hooves as he races through the forest, at any moment he could stumble and fall. He could break a leg and that would be the end of him. There’s nothing for it, he simply launches over dead logs and avoids the branches and brambles as best he can for he can hear the snapping of their jaws behind him. He almost feels their hot breath on the back of his legs, hears their howls expressing their glee of the chase. Then suddenly they fall back, he can hear them slowing their pace. He’s not convinced and doesn't stop till he is forced. Not realizing where he had been headed, he has now come to the base of a mountain and there is nowhere else to go.. Or is there?
Looking over his shoulder, he can see the three predators circling behind him but they don’t come towards him. Instead they simple watch. He looks in front of him again and now sees the large dark opening on the rocky side of the mountain. It is dark and ominous, a putrid smelling come from it’s depths. There’s no way he’s going in there. He turns to try and escape and the hellhounds instantly block his path with snapping teeth and snarls. Backing away from them, he assesses the cave mouth again. Either he goes into the darkness or gets eaten by the pack. ”Dad…” He calls out hopefully, fearfully. His plea is met with silence, Magnus is nowhere to be found. Of course nobody would find him either, nobody knew he was even gone. Gold flecked eyes stare at the black hole as he tries to gather some sense of courage about him. He was a grown stallion now, not that fearful colt that watched his mother die on the beach. He had lived through worse things and still came out in one piece. Standing in a cave and waiting for the hounds to leave pales in comparison to everything else he has been through. Besides, it wouldn’t be forever. The hounds would eventually get bored and find easier prey elsewhere. Reluctantly he steps towards the cave and takes a deep breath of fresh air. It was the only way. His hooves clatter on stone and the dankness overwhelms him, his nostrils wrinkling at the smell of something rotten. Another step, then another until he is completely in the cave and the darkness has swallowed him whole.
i love the way that your heart breaks with every injustice and deadly fate
He comes for him. The black colt doesn’t know who He is at first, but he will find out soon enough. He knows barely anything at all. He is still as stupid now as he was then. He doesn’t know that He had found him because of her. Cordis. Her name rings in his mind, a sweet and terrible memory of longing and agony. She had led Him here. Inadvertently, of course. But nevertheless she had.
He has recovered from her lightning well enough. His youth works for him in that respect. But he still bears scars upon his side, scars where the wild bolts had scorched his hide, burned shapeless brands into his skin. The hair had grown back, but now it is white instead of black. It stands out starkly against his dark pelt. In a few years, it would blend in with his already fading coat, but for now it serves as a constant reminder of that day.
Somehow He knows. He knows all about her, about that day. The scraggly colt doesn’t question how. Why doesn’t he question it? He should. He is such a witless pawn, longing for the beautiful anguish that he has learned to love. Or rather, been born to love. And so he follows Him. He doesn’t know yet the fate that awaits him at His hooves, but soon enough he will. And he is excited. At least, as excited as he gets. He is much the same as he had been before, dull gray eyes and unkempt mane and tail. His coat had lost its tattered appearance when he lost his baby-fine fur, but he is still lean and leggy. He has grown further, his height promising to be impressive. All the more canvas for Him to work with.
He makes promises, and like a fool Raelynx follows. He follows like the blind idiot he is. How could he not? Such promises He has made. He might not even be lying. The gangly colt will only ever find out by following. And so he does.
It feels like they have been traveling for ages and yet it is only the blink of an eye. And suddenly he is there. He doesn’t know how. And like the witling that he is, he does not question it. He is in His lair, a lamb to slaughter so willingly led.
She loved the night. Loved it more than the warmth of the sun, or the golden rays it spilled. Her heart was stolen by silvered moonbeams, the calm crisp air of evening. Her drum beat to the vibrating tymbals of the cicada. Nothing felt more soothing, or simple to the girl. Nothing, except perhaps to include the feeling of freshly fallen snow. The smell of frozen pine, the beauty of an icicle clinging to a redwood bough.
Bly was born early, only a bit early, but early all the same. Patches of snow still clung to the earth then, breath still emerged as fog around your maw. It was fitting and it was beautiful, more beautiful than the filly could describe. The first thing she remembered about life, was the smiling face of her Dam, and the starlight expanse above her. An expanse she was looking at now, silver head tilted back with creamy tendrils floating down her neck. Night was perfect, here in the Gates she could see the stars so clearly. She stood mesmerized by the twinkling of burning gases, some perhaps ceasing long ago, their ghosts refusing to disappear altogether. There was more to the stars than she would ever know, more than she could comprehend. She was but a young girl and knew little in the ways of the universe.
Tonight, this night, that fact was to be a most unfortunate thing. Bly did not heed the howls that snuck across the meadows. Ones that were drowned in night song from cryptic insects, and went unnoticed on the breeze. It is much too late when sensibility finally hits her, when her head and her heart find each other. Both pound with emotion, mostly that of fright, which is the first of many mistakes. They are drawn to the rapid flutter of her life source, the stench of her fright. Her initial reaction to bolt, to flee instead of fight, is short lived. Her young, strong legs, are no match for the beasts that find her. They smell of death, of desecration, and that they are. Their very presence spurns her home ‘Heaven’s Gates’ and she will find no salvation within its borders.
They are magnificently fast, a bat of an eye and they are upon her, felling her in moments. She snatches a breath as fangs sink into her flesh, pulling her legs from beneath her, and she meets the ground. The yearling did not stand a chance against such supernatural creatures, not a chance in hell, or heaven for that matter. A rock strikes her temple on impact and consciousness is taken from her, the world fading rapidly from sight. Bly tries to blink away the fuzzy blackness taking over, as if that could somehow remedy her condition. For a while the last thing she sees are two pairs of glowing red eyes, surrounded by masses of dark mangled fur. A sickly scent fills her nose and she is out, succumbing to blackness like the last moments of a dying star.
She doesn’t know how she got here, nor does she know when. What she does know is that thick, hot saliva runs down her leg. Her leg that is clamped tightly in a razor sharp jaw. That is tugged down.
Down,
down,
down,
down into the earth. Most of what her sight would show her, is cloaked in the damp darkness that fills this place, this descending slope. She does see two burning red eyes before her, hears a rumbling snarl from her captors. It’s all too much for the child, and she succumbs to blackness once again.
The sun shines dimly through the mist. Everywhere is silence. Even the ravens have ceased chattering, their coal black eyes watching, ever watching. Minette despises them. She dreams of ravens, and wakes to ravens, black feathers the consistent nightmare in her life. Ravens and the white wolf.
It has only been a few days since Minette's rebellion has been quelled. She is bruised, and exhausted. Every sound sends her ears flying backwards and her head low. Each time she is certain Gryffen is returning to end her life.
But no, she thinks bitterly on the third day, the greater punishment is to let me live.
The gray speckled mare has almost settled into a routine of reculsivity when her master reappears.
He finds her lying amongst the crags, the cold water of the creek lapping against her side. The iciness is almost unbearable, but after awhile, she has found, it will numb her pain. He waits, like the patient predator he is, until she notices his arrival.
Her eyes widen with surprise, and then fear, and she finds she cannot move though she longs to flee. He is pleased, but not fully satisfied. She would learn the meaning of submission to a greater will. And he would get his daughter back in the meantime.
“Did you think I was through with you, little minnow?”
He curls his lip, a snarl laced through his words. Minette shivers, her muscles tightening in anticipation of his hooves connecting with her body once more. She closes her eyes.
Silence. Steady hoofbeats. A sharp nip on her ear. “Up.”
She obeys stiffly, clambering to her feet with little grace. Minette can feel the warmth of his body against hers. The stench of his breath heats her skin as he caresses her shoulder, delicately, so gently Minette is sure she is hallucinating.
“Gryffen...?” Her voice is shaky, uncertain.
His eyes flash towards hers, and a strange sound issues form his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize that he is laughing, a deep throated sound that chills her more than any touch he has laid upon her. He continues his gentle exploration of her body, an action more invasive than lover like.
“Just committing your luscious body to memory so I will be able to recognize you when you return home. I still want that son from you.”
Terror grips her chest. “I... I'm leaving? Where-where am I going?”
“Oh, don't you worry about that, minnow. You'll always return to me.”
Another smile. Another smirk. He stomps his feet and pushes her forward. Minette's feeble protest is met with a harsh bite on her rump. She hurtles forward, whinnying sharply.
Every step of their long walk only serves to strengthen Minette's fear. She suspects that is the white stallion's aim, the secret behind his silence, but knowing does not allay her worries. Gryffen does not let her stop, but nor does he strike her again. It is almost as if he is saving her, preserving the expanse of her flesh for the right moment.
Or the right punisher.
His slinks behind her, his amusement and satisfaction seeming to grow with each mile they cover. In the distance, Minette thinks she hears the howl of a wolf. But it all wrong for a wolf, both higher pitched and deeper toned than any predator she has heard before. A question plays on the edge of her lips, but she bites it back. She will not give her captor the satisfaction.
Morning has come and gone, and afternoon's shadows are lengthening. There is a scar in the earth ahead, a great opening that reeks of anguish and despair, echoing a mournful wail that grows louder with every step they take. Gryffen becomes harsher, more relentless, spurring the delicate mare closer and closer to the cave. He halts only when her hooves have just crossed the threshhold. She rears, slipping backwards, only to be forcefully pushed back into the mouth of the lair.
“Oh no, little minnow. This is our stop. You see, I don't feel you are sufficiently punished for your actions. Perhaps after this, you will know better than to fuck with me.”
“Gryffen, please.” she chokes out, her eyes wild with panic.
He says nothing, only blocks her way patiently, and cruelly, until Minette finally gives in. Her shoulders slump. She allows herself to be herded forward so that her only path is the one underground.
“I leave her here for you, dark god.” Gryffen's red eyes glow and his voice rings out. A cruel smile crosses his features. “Return the bitch in whatever condition you like.”
An icy wind emanates from the cave's opening. Dimly, Minette can make out shapes. She finds herself hoping that her eyes will not show her what her heart suspects is there. The white wolf paces at her heels.
She takes a step forward and then another, until darkness envelops her.
***Gryffen was used with permission and encouragement from his player, Jeje.***
Mother left and daddy too. She never met the later but heard is name whispered amongst the stars. She was different because of him. Not as strange as some but odd enough to be left behind. To be forgotten. Solid black with royal purple mane and tail. A pretty little, lonely girl.
It was how he found her. Sprawled out , alone, dozing in the summer heat. Nobody to look out for the poor little space child.
He came to her softly, like she had hoped he would. Kind words and caresses to ease her from her slumber. He looked like a storm, and she needed the rain. Needed the soft tones and sweet words that he offered. After so long without speaking, the little lost girl choked out her first word. "Poppa?"
He promised her the stars, and she followed. He told her of the wonders he could show her, and she laughed. He called her his good little girl, and she missed the darkness in his ancient eyes.
She was a perfect piece for his game. His own lost and lonely, flesh and blood. And because of that she followed him unquestioning to the ends of the earth.
Cress has always been a kind girl. She has had no reason to be cruel or cunning, like those before her. Her parents weren’t the nicest of horses, but they did not raise the golden girl; instead, they left her to fend for herself. So Cress grew up kind. Being able to heal herself (and others) has given her a sense of wonder about the world and she doesn’t want to see others hurt. She has pushed her abilities to the absolute limits to save a life before and she would do it again every single day if it meant saving a life.
This, though, might just break her.
It will shatter her and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to heal these pieces.
She is by herself in the Valley, as she so often is, when the howls begin. Instantly her head flies up and she glances around, not bothering to hide her excitement. Has the pack of wolves returned? The Valley hasn’t echoed with the sounds of howling wolves in many years and she can’t quell the emotions that rise up inside of her. The barks and howls aren’t quite the same as she is used to, but perhaps it is a completely new pack. New wolves for a new monarch; it seems fitting.
Little does she know that they are coming for her.
The hellhounds burst from the undergrowth and Cress’ excitement turns to panic as she realizes that these are not truly wolves. She has seen a hellhound before but these are darker, more twisted, more sinister. With a panicked shriek she spins and dashes off, though she knows that it is futile. These foul creatures were hunting, and they were hunting her; as much as she can heal herself, if they start tearing into her flesh and devouring her alive, there is no coming back. She’ll die here, alone and forgotten in the deepest part of the Valley.
Clumsy hooves that are still adjusting to the terrain are her downfall. She stumbles and goes down to her knees, and the hounds are upon her. There is one for each of her limbs and they grab ahold, dragging her down, down, down. Their teeth break flesh and she screams, even though she knows that no one can hear her. It is useless.
Is this fate worse than being eaten? Time to find out.
