"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
There is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went mad --
And it seems indeed that their great architect has gone mad, for the world around them shrieks and falls to the screeching demands of their land, their great mother, who has turned upon them, who punishes them for taking what she had once offered.
Oh, he feels the pull, gnarled fingers tugging at his skin as he saunters from the mountain, he feels a lead weight settle in his belly. But he fights it. Once, perhaps, he had things owed to the land, the same way he was once birthed to a woman.
Both those things were many iterations ago.
Now, he has surpassed such things – he, their dark god, their cosmic master, who has died and come back tenfold, who has consumed alive the magic of a dozen other creatures. He is no longer chained to Beqanna.
She is a goddess, they say; but he is a god.
They are immovable force and unstoppable object, meeting, colliding.
And yes, sometimes he feels sick, an odd and dizzying sensation (he is not used to mortal ills, has not known them for centuries), an odd uneasiness of the stomach that his power seems unable to touch. And yes, sometimes his god’s magic doesn’t work as anticipated – misaimed, or misdirected, or not exactly what he’s called forth – but he dismisses it. He’s sure it will pass, in time, as his own strength overcomes the lands.
What’s most insulting, he finds (for he doesn’t care about the others, let them lose their traits, live naked and helpless like newborn mice), is the way the lands are destroyed – burnt and gone, collapsed. Yet this goddess - she dangles new lands before them, yet makes them beg for them, grovel like worms.
(Disgusting. He is the only one they should kneel before.)
He knows he cannot be the only one appalled by this. So he calls out. He wonders if any of his devoted are left, the few he’s branded. He knows there are legions of sons and daughters, but truth is, he does not expect much loyalty from his blood.
Still. He calls.
“My friends,” he says, and a snake’s smile is on his gruesome lips, “your darling home has taken what you have so rightly earned. And now she makes you beg and grovel just to have what once was yours given back. A cowardly, foolish move.”
And does the land shake under his feet, or does he imagine it? Never mind. He goes on.
“But gods are gods,” he continues, “and I have not been defeated.”
(Never mind the way he feels slightly feverish. Never mind.)
“She took from you,” he says, “and I am here to help you take it back.”
He says this as if he is a generous man. A selfless one. Never mind he needs them, needs their loyalty to do what he is planning.
(Needs a sacrificial lamb, perhaps. Or two. Or a dozen. Needs a test subject. Never mind the fever. Never mind.)
“I force no one into this. You may leave now. You may pledge me your loyalty for only a few weeks, or even days. But you have been wronged, and I am here to right things.”
As if he has ever righted anything. A god’s mind is a strange and terrible place to me.
“My name is Carnage,” he says, as if they do not know his name, “and I am here to reclaim what is mine. What is ours.”
c a r n a g e
tl;dr
- because he has 'god magic' Carnage still has powers, but he's sick, and they malfunction.
- Carnage is looking for team members to join him to "take back" a land; so basically if your horse is mad about the change, or is easily swayed, or just likes Carnage a lot they can join!
- FULL DISCLOSURE if this ends up in eventually getting a land Carnage 100% wants to rule it. i can promise this will be for, like, a month because he's actually super shitty to play. but if you sign on you sign on for a brief dictatorship.
- PM me with any questions <3333
- the italicized paragraph is H.P. Lovecraft's, not mine!
When the great spires of Beqanna toppled and fell, Harmonia did not bat an eye. What was a kingdom to her? She was born to the Amazons - now a shell of what once was - and since then bore no allegiance to any one land. A wanderer, true and always.
When the lands morphed and changed she did not care.
Let it, see where her love lies.
But the stripping of her magic was not acceptable to her. She was not angry - she was furious. How dare they? How dare it? In rightful outrage she went through every stage of grief and landed, at long last, on seething revenge.
Magic or no, she can smell it. She can feel it rippling across the magicless meadow and call her like she once called children to her lair. She knows that feeling, sweet and musical, drunk off the promise. Surgery, now looking more like a yearling than a foal, follows because he has no other ideas. Harmonia's magic has loosened its coils on his brain and the fog has lifted, but he still lacks that independent thought. He can only follow as she moves - trance like - to the meadow.
09-08-2016, 05:39 PM (This post was last modified: 09-11-2016, 08:00 PM by Tioga.)
You were automatic, as hollow as the 'o' in God.
The forest remains, yes. A picture of bleak, naked trees against a dreary grey backdrop. I continue my path, passing each sentinel of the forest and blinking against the overcast glare of the skies. Everything was new, unfamiliar, wild and I was like a pilgrim on maiden voyage, each intake of breath bringing me closer to acquaintance. What had we done? Where had the world gone to?
This replacement was almost unsteadying in a sense, though I was curious I was wary, uncertain as to what to expect around each curve of game trail. As a progress the trees clear, now only dotting the terrain here and there instead of providing a blanket of cover. I am exposed, unguarded now more than ever and my eyes stay ever watchful- each one shining like a copper penny against the contrast of my dappled skin. The grass is same as ever, brushing against my stomach as I chart my way into the Meadow, daring not to stop for nourishment- not yet.
It’s when I see him that I stop, claim a statue like stance as he speaks, dark and glorious and dangerous if anything ever was. As he speaks I know him more, know of him at least, this is the one the twins speak of, the Dark God that roped them from the skies. Though they hold their own hostilities with this creature I can not help but know for certain he holds a safety net for me, that if I were to cast my lot with him I would have better chances at survival. He and I are so different though, cut from opposing ends of the spectrum and I would do well to know and keep my place. Yet underneath it all growls the darkness in my own right, the one I supress with dedication because I am not Him- I am not Khaos.
He asks for others, ones who will join him, ones who want more and though perhaps now I am not ambitious I am open to possibilities. I shake my head momentarily, sending my bleached tresses over my nose and across my jaw. It’s a nod at the words that I can not hear, a yes to the ones I can decipher from his blackened lips. I will come to know what true darkness is, I will join the devil even if I must. I will persevere even as the world cries greed and demands apologies.
(Let the god read that from his mind, and judge him accordingly.)
Fuck their homes. His had been… unsatisfactory, as so many things in his life had been for so long. He had let that go. Shed the bindings of that word and that concept – let it die with the colt and boy (why won’t they die?); discarded it atop the mountains of misfit realities, things that fight his narrative and things that are senseless. Things of pine and castles of ice; polar bears and the sharp smell of melting plastic; hands and clothes sticking to his naked, hairless chest; the gurgling of babes and the loneliness sunk deep and heavy.
Let them die. Let them be forgotten, all.
He comes for fleshy things.
He comes for bodily pleasures.
He comes for things that are his.
(The bitch. That greedy, larcenous...)
Things that had been taken away when She had found herself used to abuse.
Had they not been Her monsters? If they bit Her flesh, was it not because She had inadequately cowed them when She had the chance to contain? He feels no sympathy, though She rolls beneath him and She bleeds him – She makes him mountains to climb without his nimble feet. Amusing.
He feels no remorse. She had taken his trinkets – these, at least, he had been given through natural means – fertilization, growth, all things that are Hers. Earthly.
But so too has She taken his weapons. No. This would not do.
They had not been fashioned of Her magic. She should have felt that when She slaked herself on them – those horns and feet, the Fear. That the make of those things were not her craft, but cold and iron, and jingled with the soft, cheery songs of another universe entire. Those efficient and brutal parts of him – the godly parts, not as magnificent as Harmonia’s, certainly not Carnage’s, but they had satisfied him. The things he had made! The beautiful, abstract expressionism... He had fought and fallen and killed for them, across continents and Atlantics.
Yet she had taken them all the same. Asked him to kneel for them. To kiss her ring.
No. This would not do, at all.
He follows the summons like another kind of pilgrimage – this one is easier, more benevolent. It does not seek to choke him, or trip Bruise (his son, he hurries along with a great, strange wing, to keep pace – he wonders where Sinew is, who had once nourished the dark god's disciple), and though he does not get to feel the weight of his headgear or the electric plunge into invisibility when he gets to Carnage, there is a different kind of fulfillment than when he reaches the climax of stone. The Father (for Pollock, a handful of greats back) offers something more substantial. Reclamation, pounding like a war drum.
... besides, he has always hated mothers.
The other golden wretch of this land speaks, the second does not (he wonders, fleetingly, if she does not scream either; he is who he is) but gesticulates, they pledge and the gift-giver considers.
“Yet she has been so very generous to the penitent thus far.” His lip curls and he dips his head, still resting a wing over his son’s back and side, something like protection. He is not one to follow, try as he had – not since he had been remade; he had been a wolf and shepherd in gold cloth since – but he finds stimulation in the chaos and vengeance that coats their lungs. “Fuck them. I have... stuff I need to do. For that, I need myself back. Whole. Besides, I think they need us.”
Ever since the change happened she had been alone. In the Tundra she had spent quite a lot time on her own too, but that had been different. Familiar faces had always been near. It had been days since she had last seen someone she knew – before the change to be exact. She’s lonely and doesn’t understand what is going on. Her home had disappeared and the kingdom members, including her parents, were nowhere to be found. It makes Igni feel even more lonely, as there is no-one around to help her get back up. Never before had she felt so helpless and alone.
It are all strangers too her, but she finds comfort in their presence and the gray stallion’s words. He talks about a god – addresses it as her – but then he speaks about himself as a god like creature too. One god was angry with them, and the other wanted them to take back what they had lost? It confuses the blue roan girl, but she cannot say that his words don’t sound alluring. If there were two gods and two ways, why would theirs be wrong? And so she stays, happy that she has found a place to belong again.
”Please.. please build us a home” she requests softly, voice barely audible as she looks up with awe at the gray stranger that had introduced himself as Carnage.
... and fire is the burning passion within.
OOC: So, Igni isn’t evil at all, just a headstrong former Tundra pony that is eager to prove herself and her worth. She is young, lonely, confused and scared. So she would easily believe that Carnage is doing this for them and truly wants to help and such.
Things were happening. He watched silently as they mingled in the meadow, as they spoke (some in hushed voices, some in grand proclamations) to one another. He saw alliances form, former relationships fall. It all happened so quickly. He had been caught up in it too - rushing like a river towards the falls. It had been intoxicating, something to keep him busy. But when he stepped back to observe he found that this new order was not to his liking.
Yes, he watched as they marched up the mountain in their little groups. He watched as they returned, oftentimes speaking excitedly about their pilgrimage to see mother earth herself. From this sort of passive espionage he found that his fears were now realized. She wanted their devotion, and would accept nothing less.
And he could have given it, perhaps, if a little begging could have returned his lover to him. But the lands that the mother gave were not what they once were. He had examined the new terrain, and found that it was different in every way from the way it should be. Completely unacceptable. He does not care for them, or their traits, or even his. Not unless he can have her back. Without her, nothing else matters.
Today, he stands at the base of the mountain awaiting the newest adventurers to descend and spew their stories to one another in excitement (how pathetic, do they have no pride?). He has decided that he will not bow to her. She has abused him grievously, and for this he owes her nothing. But while he waits he does ponder his next move. It is then that he notices it; that familiar pulsating sensation that is magic. But it is not on the mountain, it moves among them.
He feels this well before he hears the call (senses alert for any indication of where the source might be), and he is quick to move towards it. It is not long before he finds him - the god. Oh yes, he know of Carnage (anyone who has lived long enough is sure to have at least heard of him) and his connection to his beloved. Despite himself, he feels hope surge through him as he moves closer to hear the sermon.
He watches carefully as the grey being speaks, and knows well the lies behind the smile and the hidden truths that lurk beneath what is actually said. But he recognizes the resentfulness and the indignation, so he lets himself be carried forward. Like an insect drawn to its demise by the dance of flame, Gunsynd allows himself to believe that this creature will restore his Valley to him.
Others approach, some speaking, some remaining silent. He watches them, uninterested (except for the young Tundra mare who seems just too appetizing). When they are quieted he bows to the god (his god). “I am Gunsynd. Use me in whatever way you see fit.” He does not beg for the return of the Valley, for it does not cross his mind that the creature might not want to restore it. He does not beg for his powers, for if the god needs to use him, he will know that he will be far more useful with them restored.
Speaking his peace, he quiets once more and continues his observations. This is the path he will tread.
I M J U S T A S U C K E R F O R P A I N
I just have to say that everyone has written beautiful words and I am not worthy.
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
I love the way that your heart breaks with every injustice and deadly fate
It is so rare for him to feel true emotion. So often, there is nothing truly worthy of feeling, of anything beyond mild interest, or amusement, or complete disregard. But now. Now, he is angry. Seething, if truth be told. For a monster who so rarely feels a thing, it is truly impressive.
But his anger is a thing he cannot deny. He had been stolen from. And the thing that had been stolen is one of the few things that truly matter to him. One of the very few things in his life he truly cares about. His fire.
A jealous and vengeful Beqanna has ripped it from him, but it had never been hers to take. She had not given it to him. It had been the gift of another a god. A dark god. The only god he recognizes.
It had not been hers to take, and that makes him furious.
He would take it back, but he has never been a clever one. He cannot do it alone. So he haunts the meadow, biding his time.
So when he sees Him, his god, he knows the time has come. He knows what he will do, without question, without hesitation.
He joins him, lips cracking into a cruel grimace, normally bland gray eyes darkly ominous. A monster, joining the legions if his god, charred, hideous body willing fodder for a war he gladly anticipates.
He doesn't say a word, doesn't need to. Carnage would know why he is here. After all, he had already demonstrated his willingness to burn for him.
Peace—this so called new found glory, a feeling that itself had been forgotten and lost within the chaos, would not last forever. While he bathes in the serenity of it, the waves reminding him of what he once had and has now (this piece of heaven, or so it feels as if it might be), would be the ending of him. The thought of it, the fear crawling in the cracks and bounding his peaceful piece of heaven, makes him wary of it all. He fears what will come of it.
This darkness, this monster, creator, and maker that called him his own, would never rest. It was a selfish and unforgiving divinity. In time, it would find him again—shackle and drag him all the way back to hell. He would be chained, bounded tighter than ever before. He would be reminded that he was a servant to it, a slave forever to the darkness.
But, for now, he is not bounded by it.
He is free, and with that freedom he knows he must find a way to keep it.
Rodrik has always been a prideful individual, and has always looked out for himself (and those he considered to be family, which was greatly a deep secret he never shared to anyone). So, it is not out of character for the red devil to find himself at the presence of another divinity. A divinity that has long been known to bring chaos and destruction to Beqanna. And, even to this day, still does as it pleases. Carnage would and always be what he pleased to be and do.
He stands here though, not as a slave looking for another master and creator, but for himself. Rodrik must save himself for the darkness (and even the thousand-year-old soul in his body, for Rodrik is just a vessel, begs for him to be here). The red stallion does not know the others, but they are all here for one thing—themselves, but it bounds them together for one purpose in the end.
“We are here. Leads us.”
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
It’s not that she doesn’t know the stories.
She comes from his blood, yes, but she also comes from a line hell-bent on destroying him. But he has never mattered, he has always been something abstract, something indefinite – a name, but not an action. Not a living, breathing thing. More like a story. A fiction.
Yet he is here, now, in the gray and sullen flesh.
She is not the kind who pledges allegiance to anything. Or anyone. But she is angry, now, a woman scorned – a woman with powers stripped from her without warning, without a chance to fight back. So yes, she is angry – no, furious - and yes, she wants to punish the land – the goddess – who did this. Who robbed Violence of her most basic self, the self who knows the bones, the self who find necromancy as easy as breathing.
Hell hath no fury, they say. And maybe it’s right. Because this woman scorned comes up to him, joins the precarious contingent of misfits, the men and women with uneasy stares. She looks him in the eye – there is a certain familiarity to his features, for she is his granddaughter, after all – and nods, once.
“Take it,” she says, “take what she will not give.”
Loyalty is an unfamiliar curse that does not flow through his veins.
He does not tie himself to others, does not pledge himself to causes. Even though he is a young boy, still spindly in his youth, he recognizes that in himself. The only loyalty that could be argued was that of him to his father, the golden monster by his side, and even that could be argued as self-serving. He had things to learn from Pollock, tricks and skills to master—or, at least, he would as soon as he could get such gifts back from whatever cruel mistress saw fit to strip him of them.
He was not like his sire. He had not been born bare of the true Gifts; he had not known that from a young age. He had, instead, been given a sweet taste of Fear’s nectar and then had it taken from him. He had been allowed to walk down the mountain with nimble feet, generous horns curving beautifully from his skull. He had known what it meant to master your own body—to traverse dangerous paths without concern. He had even known the darker corners of his gift. He had seen beauty and art when he had pulled on the thread of Fear and the mare had collapsed. He had known love in that moment.
He had let her name him, unknowingly. He had loved her.
[He still thinks of her, coat of cream and eyes of emerald. He will think of it often.]
But then, then the faeries had stripped him of his gifts. Wrenched them from him for the sins of others and that would not do. That would not be an injustice he took willingly. So he walks next to his father, aching for the gifts of agility and speed that had been but briefly his own. He walks and then stands silently next to him as they pledge themselves to dark god—a magician of powers beyond his imagination. A dark god who had committed atrocities he could not comprehend. Bruise found he did not care of it much at all.
He would not pledge his loyalty or give unnecessarily, but he would stand behind him if he could get back what was his. He would join alongside his father if he was to take back what was rightfully his own. So he nods toward Carnage, surprisingly hard and stern for his age. He knew that Carnage did not need them, did not care for their best interests (he would not, if he was Carnage), but this, he does not care about either. He did not need the dark god to love him or protect him like a lamb. He needed Carnage to tear apart limbs and rip apart the earth until it spit up their gifts, until Fear once again was his to wield.
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