we are crooked souls trying to stand up straight

[Warrick]

there was a heaven in you
but god there's a devil in me

He had left a part of himself on the mountain long ago. The now-King had been just a child then, when Orani and Beyah had been taken from him in a whirlwind of magic from The Reckoning. The stallion has come far since that fateful day, yet as he stares up at the mountainside there is an urgency that nearly crushes him - the idea of returning to that same place, with a need that he cannot fulfill. Warrick’s face is worn and distraught as he tips his chin upwards, the cold chill of autumn raking its icy fingers across his auburn body, playing with the cobalt feathers that cling tightly to his sides. He inhales deeply only to exhale in a shuddering sigh, his breath a warm vapor that floats gently around his stoic face before evaporating into nothingness.

There is no other way.

The stallion does not fly towards the precipice of the mountain. Many times had he trekked the volcanic mountainside of his home, and though the mystical mountain is grander in every way (larger, more terrifying), Warrick could not help but think he would be doing himself a disservice to merely take to the skies and avoid the journey that awaits him through winding, thin paths riddled with rock and ice. Already his journey up the side of the mountain proves difficult as the wind begins to stir more aggressively, tugging at the dark tendrils of his mane and forelock, snapping them around his face as his jaw clenches with exertion, pressing each hoof carefully and purposefully into the rocky terrain.

The onslaught of winter is already evident as he scales the mountain - his body begins to quake with the decreasing temperatures and the mighty gales that threaten to blow him easily off his course, to throw him to the ground with one easy and icy breath. He presses into the wind, lowering his head to face the brunt of it. He would not be found facedown in the dirt again. The air howls mournfully and Warrick feels dreadfully alone in each step he takes, fueled by the thoughts that ravage his mind savagely, tormenting him in a way that he had never experienced.

Someone who will thrust Tephra into greatness.

The wind tears at his skin, biting and forceful.

Are there not wolves at your door?

He loses his balance, stumbling against the unforgiving wall of stone that catches his shoulder, scraping with inanimate teeth into his skin to peel back the skin and reveal blood.

Respect your father, especially when your father is a god.

His face presses into the rock of the mountain, teetering on the edge as he carefully moves along the thin path, the feeling of grit and rugged stone bloodying his face reminding him of the way he had been ground into the dirt by an invisible hand, plucked from the sky by a mere thought.  The path opens up before him and Warrick is able to breathe easier, though part of his heart still clutches in his throat at the sight of the edge, his body shivering with the bitter cold.

Hours pass. He is even convinced that it had been days to finish the trek to the very top, where the snow is thick and full, made smooth by the constant wind that careens into each crevice of the mountain. He is tired and exhausted, finding his muscles atrophying in the frigid temperatures. He groans with each step, wondering if bone would shatter with the movement he insists on as he continues to move forward. He cannot remember how long his eyes had been closed and for a moment he wonders if the lids have frozen shut, his sweat and perspiration frozen in droplets across his body, tendrils of tangled mane dreaded and stiff.

Finally, the osprey-King halts - he can go no further, for even though his mind begs, his body cannot react to his will. There is nothing on the mountain save for the white of the snow and the blackness of stone, swirling wind bitterly howling in his ears. He can hear them whispering and their faces appear - Tangerine, Solace, Svedka, Wishbone, Kagerus, Wound - in his bleary mind. Wound’s disappearance, the trail of blood left on the shores of the inlet, signaling the worst. The image of Longclaw presses in, coughing and sputtering blood onto the Tephran plains, his life burning out before Warrick’s eyes as he succumbs to a plague that eats his flesh from the inside out, giving up his life to protect his King.

He cannot keep them safe from the terrors of the world.

Murderers, plagues, robbers, usurpers...

He has failed. He is not enough.

There is no other way.

He lifts his chin, the movement shuddering and slow.

“Help me,” he exclaims in a breath, his cerulean gaze flickering through flashing white that surrounds him as if he would be able to see someone in the midst of the blizzard, “help me protect them.” Warrick falls to his knees from sheer exhaustion, the hard snow welcoming him in a tender embrace of ice and searing cold.

WARRICK

@[Officials] @[devin]

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He likes to think of himself as an equalizer.
Beqanna is so boring, holding her magic hostage from them, so slow to dole out favors. Perhaps rightly so – he’s granted favors, too, tried to take horses under his wing, only to be ever so disappointed. They’re all failures, in the end.
But unlike Beqanna, he’s not some withholding bitch.

He’s tracked his son, casually, after their meeting when he appeared in the sky, told Warrick the secrets of his lineage. He wonders if the boy believes him yet. It doesn’t matter, not really – he’s done all the convincing he cares to.
Curious, that the boy should come to the mountain. The dark god touches his mind, rifles through to suss out the purpose of his journey.
Oh, how cute. He wants protection for his kingdom. To be their savior. He’s come miles, through snow and hardship, all to beg.

He doesn’t materialize in the sky, this time – instead, the snow swirls thicker, a whiteout that surrounds Warrick. It stops just as suddenly, the snow halting, freezing in place, a still and silent whiteness all around them.
It’s from this that he emerges, his gravestone-gray coat made darker in comparison to the blinding white around him. He’s in his normal form, his horse-form, this time, looking his errant son in the eye.
“Hello again, Warrick,” he says, voice languid, but loud in the silence, “I see you’ve come to ask a favor. Beqanna’s not listening, but I am.”

c a r n a g e

@[Warrick]
*insert surprise bitch meme*

[Warrick]

there was a heaven in you
but god there's a devil in me

The sea of white around him begins to move - swirling and swirling and biting with every passing breath - and wearily he attempts to keep his eyelids from fluttering closed, lifting his chin to attempt to see through the blinding whiteness. For a moment he believes his request will go unanswered, the fairies leaving him to silence just like the stars he still continues to stare up into in the night sky. He had come all this way for nothing, he muses bitterly, wondering if the frost has started to slowly kill him with numbness and the slowing of his once-warm blood. Then, just as this thought flutters into his mind, the flurries literally freeze in midair. It’s a beautiful sight to behold - as if time itself had become frozen from the sheer temperatures, but Warrick knew better.

He was no longer alone.

An equine approaches him - steel grey against the white of the world around them - and a curious snort escapes Warrick’s iced nostrils. The figure is unfamiliar (though somehow familiar all the same) but it is the voice that is inescapably familiar to Warrick. The numbness of his mouth still somehow allows a distasteful grimace to form there, his ears falling back into the frozen threads of his mane. Carnage, he recognizes, though he does not say the name of his father out loud. Warrick does not step away from Carnage, but his posture leans away from the other stallion, obviously stricken with dissatisfaction.

Warrick’s gaze sweeps away from the stallion momentarily, searching the stand still of ice and snow as if another would appear from its depths so that he would have another choice.

Beqanna is not listening, but I am.

The navy-tipped stallion flickers his ocean eyes towards Carnage once again, curving his neck slightly and wrinkling his nostrils. Meeting the dark-god face to face in the meadow gave Warrick plenty of insight on who it is exactly he shares his bloodline with. There was no listening for the sake of listening - Carnage would not let his request go answered easily. He wonders what kind of twisted scheme is already playing in the stallion’s head, but Warrick knows it is too late for him to leave the mountain empty-handed.

And he already did that once in his lifetime. He wouldn’t allow it again, even if it meant bargaining with the devil himself.

“My kingdom,” he replies with a slight cold quiver of his otherwise sturdy voice, a thrust of his chin upwards. “I cannot protect it.” He could go on - explain his reasonings, his tribulations, his worries - but he knows that the dark god cares not for any kind of heartfelt details.

WARRICK

@[Carnage]

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

Part of him waits for Beqanna to disrupt them – for the mountain to shudder and heave at its invader. He’s interfered with her before – many times, really – and sometimes he feels it, when his interference grows too great. The pushback.
(When he first created Pangea, it had hurt, the pain of creating a land not intended for exitance. He’d won, created the land – and when he left, she had retaliated, and Pangea had crumbled.)
But there is nothing. Beqanna is busy, or perhaps doesn’t care. This isn’t much, what Warrick’s asking. And Carnage won’t ask him to do much. At least not on the surface.

“Of course you can’t,” he says, dismissive. He’s tempted to keep going, to pour salt in the wounds of Warrick’s shortcomings. But, ever the model of restraint, he moves on.
“I could be convinced,” he says, “to offer your kingdom some measure of protection. Nothing infallible, of course – we have rules, don’t we? – but something. A bit of help.”
He steps closer. He smiles, as if there is no hatred burning off his son.

“There was a kingdom,” he says, “a place called Pangea. It was my kingdom, for a time, but when I left Beqanna cast it away, off into the sea. I want you to go to its remains, and bring me back a piece – a mouthful of dirt, a rock, whatever you can carry. Something physical. Do that, and I’ll help you with your protection.”
Before Warrick can point out the obvious – Pangea is underwater – Carnage addresses it.
“Of course, it might be a bit...difficult to reach. I can help with that, too. I’ll give you the power to survive underwater, for a little while. All you have to do is kneel, and it will be granted.”
He looks at his son, his wine-dark eyes fever-bright, barely containing their glee.
“Go ahead, then,” he says, “my offer won’t last forever.”

c a r n a g e

@[Warrick]

[Warrick]

there was a heaven in you
but god there's a devil in me

Warrick bristles visibly beneath the terrible yet lackadasical voice of the dark god - (your father). His jaw clenches wildly with restraint, sealing his mouth with a tightened, thin line that quivers disparagingly. But his anger disappears just as quickly as it arrives, leaving nothing but a blank and utterly stony gaze that has become all too familiar on the Overseer’s auburn face. Carnage, despite the heat flowing through his muscles at the sheer thought, is currently his only option. Warrick remains frozen, dark eyes peering at the dark god from beneath a hooded, angry brow. He listens intently, however, as he awaits the instructions he knows will soon follow the short monologue of his father (acid burns in the back of Warrick’s throat with the same intense burn of his unwavering gaze).

Blue-tipped ears flip passively back as a soft huff leaves the navy of his mouth - he remembers the drowned kingdom of Pangea; its ruler a terrible beast, his reign of terror almost comparable to the one who had been its creator. Warrick grimaces at the reminder of the kingdom, clearly displeased with the Carnage’s obvious love for his own creation that now sits dead at the bottom of the sea.

Here they stood - two complete opposites, yet sharing a bloodline - both needing one thing from the other. It is this reason that keeps Warrick from simply turning and walking away; despite Warrick’s need to protect his kingdom, it is obvious that Carnage required something from him as well. The bay stallion’s chin lifts slightly, meeting Carnage’s gaze with an almost challenging stare as the dark god creates a situation of tension and submission, hellbent on emasculating the other with a barely containable delight.

There is a moment of hesitation and perhaps Carnage would imagine that Warrick would refuse. There is a brief moment where he considers doing so; spitting in the dark god’s face before spreading his icily-frozen wings and taking to the skies to solve his problem with a different solution. Time clicks ever so slowly, seemingly forever yawning on between the two, before there is a bend in Warrick’s right knee that allows him to do exactly what Carnage so amusedly asked for.

WARRICK

@[Carnage] warrick accepts <3
i am so terribly sorry that i poofed and am just now replying to this
please forgive me <3

[Warrick]

there was a heaven in you
but god there's a devil in me

He comes to him with a near-crumbling body from being pushed beneath the immense pressure of the ocean’s floor. Dried blood cake the inside of his nostrils, staining his once navy muzzle a deep, rust brown. The same color falls from his ears, streaking down his neck and meeting at his chest, dried there like some kind of tattoo. His breathing is labored, as if still getting used to breathing air instead of water.

Despite all this, his face is unwavering and cold - emotionless. He spits the contents of his mouth onto the ground before him (mud as black as night, still wet from saliva), wrinkling his nose and licking his lips with distaste as he attempts to rid himself of the flavor of salt and death that stains his tongue. From beneath a hooded brow, he glares up at Carnage expectantly, his eyes bloodshot from seeing the deepest cavern of the ocean with eyes that are not meant for such things.

Warrick says nothing. He will only speak to the dark god unless absolutely necessary.

WARRICK

@[Carnage]

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

The boy kneels, and sets off. Carnage follows him, for a time, lurks in his mind, viewing his drowned
(not for long)
kingdom.
He doesn’t stay, though, returns back to his corporeal form, and is there waiting when Warrick returns, eyes hard as glass and mouth full of mud. The mud is spat at his feet, rude, but Carnage only smiles, lazy. Warrick’s served his purpose.

The snow that had swirled around them is gone, replaced by a hot, baking sun. The mud will soon turn to dirt.
“This will do,” he says, placid, “you’ve served your purpose.”
“Being a man of my word - ” (he is not) “your kingdom will be protected from coming dangers. I can’t say the same for you, though. You were so eager to protect your kingdom, you didn’t think to ask for protection for yourself.”
The mud that had sat in Warrick’s mouth is the safe dirt that grew from his sick, cancerous magic. Who knows how it might affect someone? Even swallowing a morsel or two, inadvertent…
Carnage doesn’t know the effects – or if they even exist. Nor does he care. Warrick’s health is not his concern.
“Go, then,” he says, “I’m done with you. For now.”

c a r n a g e