"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
Within the darkness of Sylva’s never-ending fire, he festers.
There is no wind to rustle the branches of the trees that protrude out over the still water of the dark lake, a somber silence filling the early morning. A mist, hauntingly white and thick, slowly moves in, shrouding the many rocks that line the river with its vaporous cloak. The sunlight begins to spill through the dense canopy of trees, mostly a mixture of thick spruces or thin, spindly branches of birch. The bite that the air brings seems to make the trees shiver in anticipation. The morning mist continues to grow and swirl, the steam and spray from the rushing river mingling with the evaporation. The sunlight is not strong enough to begin to burn away at the fog, as it would in the warmer seasons. It continues to hover over the bank and its whispering waters, as if drawn to the stillness and the darkness it holds.
A hunger gleams in his eyes, a hunger that has still gone unquenched, unsatisfied. It lingers within the abyss of his darkened eyes, forever flickering beneath the blackness. Forever a predator, constantly ravenous for power and control, to succumb his prey beneath a watery grave. Within him, it simmers and churns, meticulously lying in wait in the dark depths of his soul. In the dim light of the sun’s first light, where even the crickets have stopped chirping, an evergreen and pearl stallion stands in the stagnant water, staring down into the nothingness. His large, dark eyes into the blackness, as if he is under a spell, ears listening to the murmurs and hushed voices that call to him from the water’s depths. The lake croons to him; he can feel it pulling at his fetlocks, encouraging and beckoning him to swim to the darkest depths.
The yawning blackness from the mouth of the cave behind him pulls at his back, howling mournfully as a chilled wind shifts through the trees. Branches crack and moan in the brittle wind, the rustling of the leaves whispering hauntingly in the canopy.
The tides have changed in Beqanna, but Maugrim has not.
There is a new ruler here - one that relies on mirth and insanity, a growing need for chaos for the sake of chaos.
Maugrim is not one for chaos. But where chaos reigns, darkness grows.
It is darkness, not chaos, that the stallion craves.
I'm every nightmare you've ever had,[/font][/size][/color]
I'm your worst dream come true.
Modicum Mortem is hungry. Chaos is a drug that feeds his soul. He craves it, he worships it. He could not waver from his innate addiction - he was born a psychopath. Why not indulge in it? Not everyone in Sylva is like him in his craving for bedlam. Some here would rather take on a more calm darkness - a more subtle sin that festers like a wound within the heart of the golden canopy. He does not care which one they all prefer...as long as they are here, and as long as they keep the rest of Beqanna on their toes, he was satisfied.
He is there, watching the newcomer stand in the stagnant pool. No breeze lingers in the trees this morning, just a thick mist that hangs low to the ground. The forest had lost what little brightness it had once had to the evil of Beqanna...he'd be lying if he said he didn't relish in it. He is quiet for awhile, simply observing the murky green stallion stare into the black abyss of water.
He lets out a tactical snort, grabbing at the stallion's attention before stepping closer to the lake. "Your name..." He breathes, raising one eyebrow. "I never got a chance to learn it."
Modicum Mortem
@[Maugrim] I'm sorry this is garbage. It'll get better. I'm bad at beginnings.
The salt and tempestuous groaning of the sea has always called to him; like a longing lover with warm fingertips wrapping around his neck. Even now, in the midst of thick forest and dry, cold air, he can hear her wailing, begging for his return to the deep trenches that he once called home. But there is nothing else there for him - nothing but eternal blackness and once bloated corpses that now have turned to brittle bone, picked clean by the bottom-feeders that are his only friends. The voice of the ocean dies away and is replaced with the siren song of the murky water before him - stagnant and cold, still with ever-waiting depths. The River had once been a harbor for him, and now he can feel the familiar tug of this black lake into the depths of his curdled, twisted soul.
Maugrim had begun his transformation, pulling the dark water to his legs so that the dark evergreen and pale lavender of his muscular body became as black as the water. His intention had been to melt into the deep blackness, only emerging for the things that call to him louder than the water: blood and lust. He is interrupted, though. His transformation stops half-way up, his legs completely liquified from his pull of the lakewater to himself. Maugrim’s tongue dampens the cracked and dry pearlescence of his lips, turning his dark eyes into the foreboding shadow of the forest - something watches him, something sinister, but he cannot pinpoint it.
The autumn wind stirs, howling mournfully through the empty cavern that faces his back, pulling his evergreen and pearl tendrils away from his face. A loud snort causes Maugrim’s eyes to snap to Modicum immediately, only clearly seeing the black stallion when he emerges from the shadows and the misty sunlight reveals the brightness of his nose. Maugrim returns the snort with his own - indifferent towards the forest King, though interested enough to remain on the muddy shore. Modicum steps closer to the water and Maugrim watches him possessively, his eyes hooded beneath the furrow of his brow while his pale lips twitch with warning. Not too close, stranger. The water is his.
“Maugrim,” he offers, his voice watery and deep against the stillness of the forest. He continues watching the black stallion, ears tipped back slightly, muscles taut beneath his green and lavender markings. His legs are still made completely from the water of the lake, and Maugrim wonders how quickly he could take Modicum down to the depths with him.
Modicum Mortem has always had a sick fascination with pain, with death, with destruction. Whether it be his own or that of someone else’s, it always peaked the foreboding curiosity that simmered within him. He stares at Maugrim, at the possessive look in the stallion’s eye as the clown approaches his festering bed of water. A smile is stifled as he wonders what power Maugrim was hiding beneath the murky surface of his skin.
“Mortem,” He offers back, although he is sure the finisher is already aware of this. Ice eyes are staring into the water now, threatening the other stallion with invasion of his home (this is what he wants though, to reveal his true self). But just as Mortem goes to dip his maw into the pond, he notices the black shadow that should be where Maugrim’s legs are. “For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one...” He murmurs, staring back into the abyss that was the finisher’s eyes. “Show me death.”
@[Maugrim]
OOC: So this is Morty saying “I want to see your powers” lmfao. You can ALMOST kill him but don’t actually kill him. xD Permission for Maugrim to do what he does best
The other stallion reads his face (something that Maugrim tries his best to keep masked), unable to keep himself expressionless as the stranger - the maniac King - steps closer and closer to his lair. Anger ripples across his lips, drawing his muscles tight beneath shivering skin, ears disappearing beneath the dampness of his two-toned mane. His mouth parts in a rage-filled baring of his teeth, hot breath pulsing from his lips as Modicum edges closer and closer to what he does not understand. His pulse races wildly beneath his skin, and he knows that soon he will not be able to control himself from sweeping the stallion into the placid lake.
“Show me death.”
Not a second goes by before the lake water surges suddenly with life - made alive by the puppeteer who silently stands knee-deep, unharmed. A surge of water - icy cold and biting from autumn’s breath - surges forward to begin to wrap forcefully around the bulk of Modicum’s body. The water purposefully wraps around his knees, hungry and licking at his ebony skin, following its orders from the master on the other side of the shore. Mud rushes to meet his legs where the water meets the dirt of the bank, and it appears as if the water is a beast the way it pulls him into the current, gurgling and surging in its strength that Maugrim gives it. The Riverlord’s eyes do not waver as the scene he creates unfolds before him. In a breath the King is beneath the water, angry and spurting black waves closing over his head as he pulls Modicum into the deeper parts, where the muddy bottom is out of reach of his legs in case he tries to stand.
Maugrim disappears into the water as well, following the other stallion eagerly.
Kill, kill, kill.
The evergreen and pearl stallion is now made of nothing but water - sinew and muscle liquify into the blackness of the lake. Though Modicum may not see him, Maugrim is there; a silent, invisible and diabolical force that pushes in on his chest and lungs, shoving water through his nose and throat. Maugrim watches hungrily as the struggle for breath becomes harder (even though Modicum could not see him), and eagerly awaits the moment where his lungs would force him to breathe in.
In the last few seconds, Maugrim allows himself to become barely visible - a wavering form in the water before Modicum’s eyesight. It is his favorite part - where their eyes see him, their finisher.
He does not pull the stallion from the lake. Not yet.
When it appears that the King has drowned, Maugrim floats his body effortlessly to the surface, then to the shore. The Riverlord is solid now, standing before a barely breathing body that he could merely leave if he had wanted.
But he didn’t want to.
Maugrim pulls the water from Modicum’s lungs, from his trachea, and watches with wide eyes as it pools before his mouth and red nose, throwing his head up in surprise as the seemingly lifeless body before him coughs, sputtering up whatever black water still remained. Maugrim wrinkles his nose slightly, and the once frothing waters behind them now grow still once again, as if nothing had happened.
“As you wish,” Maugrim replies in a snarl, neck curved and ears pinned backwards. He had shown him death, like he asked. Maugrim had once been shown death, too - and from that moment on, he had been enlightened. He wonders if Modicum sees the world differently now, too.
m a u g r i m.
@[Modicum Mortem]
OOC: Basically Maugrim 'drowned' him to where he was unconscious, then got all the water out for him, cause he was feeling 'nice'.
As suddenly as the words slipped from ebony maw, he is being submerged. A surge of black water wraps him in its warm embrace, but he does not fight it.
Down, down to the depths of Maugrim’s lair he goes. Every so often he is able to get to the surface, to take in as much oxygen as he can before he is plunged into the lake again. It grows harder to hold his breath, he blows out countless bubbles in an attempt to fight off the will to breathe.
It burns. Like hot lava sliding it’s way down his trachea. The inhalation of liquid is enough to make his lungs scream out in unbearable pain. The cat and mouse game continues as he is held beneath the surface and then allowed a fleeting breath. Exhilaration overtakes him - he’s not afraid. The torture his lungs is enduring makes him feel alive (although he’s certain he’s knocking upon Death’s door).
His chest is on fire as he is held under the waves for one last time. The eyes of the finisher peer out from the blackness, and Mortem feels himself slowly fading from consciousness. It is peaceful now - he slips from the madness around him into eternal slumber...
It burns. Sputtering and coughing black liquid from his lungs, the stallion looks ragged. Stringy charcoal mane falls in front of his face. Each breath is work, it hurts. A pain he’s never endured.
Ice eyes look back to Maugrim. A feeling deep within him sparks - he’d experienced death first hand. He’d seen the darkness, the nothingness. All of this, the finisher had the power to do. All of this, he had the power to do. It was thrilling, magnificent.
He cannot speak now, all he can do is stare at the murky stallion with eyes that scream “I understand.”
He remembers his first experience with death - the pivotal moment that set into motion to create the stallion that stands before his Keeper, a monster set loose among the forest of Sylva, drawn to the lake and kept on a leash by its presence. He remembers it all too well - his fascination with water, the way the tiny bird flapped its wings uselessly beneath the surface, while he held it there with a mere thought. It is like that now - a mere thought is what pulls water from Modicum’s trachea and lungs, and a mere thought is what pulled him down into the abyss. Maugrim is powerful, but he needs direction, purpose. It is something that the red-nosed King could give him. He could give him power, he could give Maugrim blood.
Maugrim also remembers the first time he had his own near-death experience. A woman (lavender grey, with a body that sang only for him) had turned his body into rot, spilled his intestines out onto the muddy floor of the forest, and patched him back together again with a thought. The moment was an important part in Maugrim’s development (and his bloodlust), a moment he would remember for his entire life time - until he dies for the first time, truly.
Modicum says nothing to the Riverlord, but Maugrim can read his eyes easily. He has seen the end - tasted it, breathed it in - and it invigorates him as it had done for him so many moons ago. There is a fire set in the black stallion’s eyes that causes a small hint of a smile to pull at Maugrim’s cracked lips, his pale tongue reaching out to dampen their dryness. There is an understanding between them now - one that transcends politics and diplomacy; something more fierce, more terrifying than could ever be imagined.
Modicum lived for the chaos (taunting the beast to show him death, begging for destruction) while Maugrim fed off of it, living in the darkness and shadows his King creates for him. He has never been one for the duties that come with a kingdom; he never fit the part. But now, like a puzzle-piece, he quietly places himself at the apex of Sylva, tied to his water and dark cave, ready to help create whatever it is Modicum envisioned - as long as he got his pound of flesh.
“What is it you need me to do, Modicum?” He asks, strangely vague. What shall be expected of him in this now-deadly forest? What can he expect to come trapezing into his territory, and how could his power be used?
04-24-2018, 02:56 PM (This post was last modified: 04-24-2018, 02:56 PM by Modicum Mortem.)
It was hard for him to decide what exactly he wanted the finisher to do for him. But the sudden, strange alliance they had formed allowed Mortem to send him wherever he needed.
The clown craved destruction, craved the taste of blood. If each and every “good” horse was hanging from the Sylvan branches, he wouldn’t bat an eye. Because the evilness in his heart knew no boundary...
“I want the old Sylvan Prince,” he states, nostrils flaring. “And the former Queen of Ischia. I want what was taken from me, I want to prove a point.” He thinks for a moment. “Bring them alive...and I will punish them.” He turns to leave, a wicked sneer painting his face. “And then...you can kill them.” With that he retreats, damp with the blackness of Maugrim’s pond and hungry for blood.
OOC: okay so basically he wants Kwartz because that was his original target anyways. And he wants Krone because if Krone dies there will be a lot of drama from both Ischia and Tephra. @[Maugrim]
There is no loyalty here - no brotherly bond, or allegiance pledge between the two stallions as they stand beneath the cold hiss of Sylva’s mist, wet with the blackness of the lake, harbored by the shadows of tree and a large, yawning chasm of blackness behind them. There is, however, an understanding that flashes between them in their smoldering eyes; an acknowledgement. Maugrim had found the look familiar as it crosses Modicum’s face (ages it has been since he had seen it, but he remembers it fondly on Levi’s mottled and cruel face), and it causes a bloodthirsty smile to flutter onto his pale mouth, his tongue dampening them with a hungry swipe across his lips.
He is ever the predator, only waiting for a command; a mission, a meaning behind the darkness he craves.
Modicum speaks names, and though Maugrim is content to keep himself in the shadows, he knows that he would need to reveal himself to be able to bring these two back to the terrible confines of Sylva. He offers Maugrim the reward that he would most desire, though the idea of a Queen kept in close quarters in the damp cave behind them electrifies him intensely, though her time there would ultimately end in her death. The Prince he would not care to keep, and he would be the first to go in a matter of minutes once handed over to Maugrim’s clutches.
His smile is not as energetic or maniacal as Modicum’s (they are different, their desires), but there still is a terrible darkness that comes with the curling of his lips, and the world around them seems to turn a darker shade. He says nothing to chaos’ King, leaving his pool with droplets of water slowly following behind him, drawn to his presence even as he leaves.
m a u g r i m.
@[Modicum Mortem]
since morty's steal was successful (insert warrick angry face here), would you want maugrim to go pick up kwartz? and then maybe discuss how to bring krone here?
