"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
06-28-2018, 10:49 AM (This post was last modified: 06-28-2018, 11:21 AM by Astarael.)
Astarael
herald of death
The forest was changing once more. Teetering on the cusp of winter, a chilled wind rustled through the autumn kissed leaves. Gliding almost unseen amongst the shadows the demon queen herself paraded herself towards the heart of the jungle. Discerning features were the only things to set her apart from the surrounding darkness, the red glow of her fear aura gathered around her hooves being the most prominent. The soft crimson lit her path and revealed the mare's most frightening features. Fully matured in the fairies' most recent gifts to her, she appeared almost underwhelmed by her own intimidation. Eyes pointed firmly upon the path her hooves tread.
She knew they would come. Like moths drawn to a flame, they too, no doubt, sense the shift. And, so, with very little encouragement needed they would gather, curiosity a strong pull upon them.
Reaching her desired destination she halted and exhaled. Sylvans. She called out towards the surrounding shadows. Seething with a hunger that demanded to be satisfied she felt the urgency. Her own starvation and lust for blood boiled just beneath the depths of her irises. It was time to release it's long awaited potential, to see its purpose realized. Shifting her weight impatiently shes watched as they gathered, restlessness gnawing on her nerves like a rabid animal determined to let lose upon the unsuspecting masses. In turn, she met their eyes by means of a greeting as the aura departed from her to brush along each of them as they passed. The queen delighted to see the growth of its power, moving now almost independently of her - sensing her desires even before she, herself, knew of them. Frightening beautiful she stood before them, her anxious energy stilling as her crown of horns glistened threateningly in the dim fingers of sunlight.
Welcome, she greeted as they settled within her chosen clearing. I will not waste your time with pleasantries as, by now, most of you already know me as your queen. Instead, I will directly inform you that Modicum Mortem's rule is no more. The pause that follows grants them all equal opportunities to allow her words to wash over them. Fear not. Those of you who have already been granted titles will not be at risk at losing your hard earned positions. As for the rest of you, her emerald eyes shifted critically from one Sylvan to the next. Should you be deemed worthy, promotions may be in order.
Despite her hardened and unusual exterior, she was not an unbeliever in recognizing those deserving of notice. She had a vision for Sylva and she intended to surround herself with those who were just as motivated to see its success as she was. They would not be allowed fade into oblivion.
Our work has only just begun, an anticipatory gleam lit a fire within the fire of her stare. An envoy will be sent to treat with Loess. It has been too long since we've last checked on our relationship and, if rumors are to be believed, Arthas has since stepped down. I would like to know of this new leader and the intent of our ally. Any volunteers will not go unnoticed.
Astarael halted her speech to allow those desiring to prove themselves the opportunity to do so. Afterwards, her tone shifted to one slightly more menacing. Altering herself slightly to her right she caught sight of Lavendel and Wound in her peripherals. Beside them, Hiroto, her personal slave, lurked.
I would also like to take a moment to extend a warm welcome to our newest guests. The breadth of her wing reached out to point out the two mares where they stood, a sickeningly sweet grin plastered onto her otherwise cruel features. They will both be with us for some time, so do be sure to pay them both a visit and give them your very best.
Torture was a specialty among them. A gift, really, and one she intended to utalize to its fullest.
Darling, you have no idea what's possible...
Summary: Morty has stepped down and has given full rule to Astarael. I dont intend on changing Sylva and will be keeping it dark. I, Andromeda, am also open for any suggests/comments/concerns. Just shoot me a PM for any plot ideas or kingdom related shenanigans. I do want to send three of you to Loess, @[Jackel] if you're interested alongside two others. We need to check on our alliance and on the new leadership. I may also want to send another group to Hyalin if there are enough volunteers.
I know we just had an activity check, but please treat this one as well. This will help me determine who is still around and who is leaving so I can update everything!
06-28-2018, 01:59 PM (This post was last modified: 06-28-2018, 03:22 PM by Crevan.)
Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
He stands beside Wound, pale fur bristling as his dark eyes sweep the gathering. News of Modicum giving up his crown hadn’t disturbed the Sylvian Hellraiser; not much ever did. All he knows is that for now, Sylva is home whether a black clown is at the helm, or a black demoness.
They have nothing to fear but Astarael's fear itself because change is always good, so he doesn’t expect much backlash. The way Sylva’s Queen threaded her power through all of them was enough to ensure she was capable of something, if nothing at all, and if the rest decided to go or stay it wouldn’t concern his wellbeing. So the pale wolf listens and watches, watches and listens.
Curiously, when the horned mare speaks about envoys going to Loess (in a group of three no doubt, certainly aggressive) Crevan’s gaze sharpens on those gathered. He won’t go himself, he has business enough here as it and, really, he’s only wanting to see who among them has what it takes and who does not.
Crevan's here, he's staying but not going to Loess
He is never far from his playthings, making sure that they are immensely aware of his constant presence. He has taken a liking to the crippled woman from Tephra (the smell of the salty sea still desperately clings to her, despite the amount of brackish water he has saturated her in), though his favor towards her is strictly in the way he is her captor - nothing else about her is anything special besides the fact that Sylva had chosen her, as he and Crevan make sure she always remembers that her only purpose here is just that. The dried cracking of his mouth lingers on the curve of her silvered neck, lipping at the dampness of her skin. Maugrim’s nostrils inhale the scent of the wolf, his dark gaze flickering towards him briefly before settling onto Astarael, their queen and now only ruler.
Maugrim is not against change - he is as fluid as the tides, easily adjusting to whatever scenario he might find himself in and, of course, only adapting to circumstances that benefit him. Tendrils of Astarael’s fear aura stretches out towards him and had he been near the water, he would have striked at the creeping red fingers with distaste. It creates a sour expression on his two-toned face, the blackness of his eyes staring defiantly into that of the demon queen. He says nothing, which is typical of the Riverlord, though it is also because he truly has nothing to say.
Astarael speaks of Loess, Maugrim’s eyes filtering through the group with a passive expression. He’s idly running his mouth over tangled locks of Wound’s mane, the dried taste of blood intermingled within. He has done enough and still has plenty to do - a trip to Loess did not sound at all appetizing and so the Finisher does not volunteer. He would perhaps start a war easily if he is sent, so hopefully the new queen realizes where the stallion’s strengths are and diplomacy is not one of them.
m a u g r i m.
Maugie is here, being creepy and silent as always. He won't go to Loess, but if he's asked, he will most likely injure someone there and cause an all out battle, so yeah. If you want that to happen then he will happily comply!
Wondering where you've been all my life, I just started living
She follows him, black-laced paws padding softly in the brittle undergrowth, the bite of autumn’s chill pressing in at all angles. Normally she would have lingered, kept herself away in their den and continue to live her life without going to one of these insane meetings, but her instincts keep her close to Crevan, her bounding strides beside him just long enough to keep up with the fluid stride of the tall wolf. Their coupling has left her dazzled by him (more so than before) and it seems the effects of it has not yet worn off. However there is no delight or silly girlishness that pulls at her features - she still appears to be the cunning little fox that now haunts each shadow and boulder of Sylva, with burning red eyes and a spitfire tongue.
Merida halts beside him, her black-lips curling into a snarl unpleasantly as she gazes at their present company. She could never find the sheer will to be surrounded by such creatures, nor to play their game of diplomacy and war. However, the fox could see how easily Crevan fits into the mold and how he seems to flourish beneath such a purpose, so she keeps her comments to herself. She cannot remember the last time she had come to a meeting such as the one before her. Perhaps in -
Loess.
The name of her old country causes a little snort to escape her slender snout, her head lifting with surprise and curiosity. She had lived there long ago, realizing quickly that she did not quite fit the puzzle piece that the current Queen had wanted her to. As her burning eyes fasten on her new queen (the name is a bitter taste on her tongue), wondering if this one will find her as unworthy as the last. Merida’s lips ripple as the aura of fear threatens to come towards her, revealing sharp teeth as she bristles visibly beside Crevan.
What a strange place this is, she thinks to herself as her eyes flash from the red glow to the large wolf at her side, remaining silent.
Merida is here as a resident, please! She would be terrible at doing anything of value for Sylva.
Honestly, Raja doesn’t care much sbout the king. Honestly, he doesn’t care much about the queen either, but she seems to be the one on the throne right now and so he comes. Creeping along the forest, the 8 month old colt is tall, but lanky, and although he is naturally silent he cannot avoid a few slips. Doesn’t matter now, they already knew of his existence.
The queen, the new leader, or old one-of-two, asks for volunteers. A mission to Loess. He shrugs. Nobody seems to want to step forward, and he doesn’t like the attention either. But he would like to know about the kingdom, so if he was picked that would be fine. It just feels so exposed, the hilly place to the north, so he doesn’t fancy going right now. He tilts his head at the red glowing, winged-and-horned woman, but apart from a slightly creepy smile he doesn’t talk. Heck, he never liked talking. Stalking, that’s his thing though - he will go and see what comes of this meeting regardless of being chosen - curious to the point of death. But if not chosen, he will just spy on them, and try to see who else is in that kingdom apart from the ones coming to meet their diplomats. It’s the ones that don’t want to be seen that one has to be extra careful of, after all.
His eyes linger on the guarded mare, but not for long. It’s the wolf that interests him, he would then be something like the fox who had shown up, too. So she lived here now, huh. And she still never told him her secret of being a talking fox and living with horses.
Rajanish
son of a dark god
Love is hurting if it screams - oh, if it's screaming out loud
07-02-2018, 03:55 PM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2018, 05:36 PM by Jackel.)
Ah, the changing of the seasons, the changing of the guards. Always the same, never the same. Always mine, never mine.
“My Sibella,” I turn my golden dome back to my small, midnight shadow, “hasten your steps. Something big is happening again. Can’t you feel it?!” A shiver runs down my spine, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. In fact I am so motivated I’ve lapped the girl several times now, trotting forward and backward, forward and backward, trying to shepherd her along faster, faster, faster. To my chagrin it doesn’t work. If anything the shadowspinner child slows down further with an open air of defiance. I’m nearly sure the girl barely tolerates me. You know what, nevermind. I’m sure of it. But alas, that does not curb my enthusiasm. No, not in the slightest.
I hardly pay any mind to those already gathered, my depthless eyes sweep over the numbers swiftly before staking claim upon a familiar algae covered form. My tawny carriage comes to rest beside, nipping at the ends of water-soaked mane adoringly, ”Hellooo Swampy”, I murmur softly. Little did he know that I have a gift idea of sorts in the works for him. The thought brings a smile to my face as a prickling sensation caresses the black stockings of my legs and the girl wreathed in shadows finally pulls up next to me.
“Oooh tingley,” I purr, enjoying the thrill of the red sensation lashing at my flesh.
The dark woman cloaked in vibrant red with horns and wings of a bat demands their attention then, and my rampant giggling falls to a minimum. I know of her rise to Queenship, yes; the giants had told me as much. But for my dark eyes to behold her was something else entirely, and I watch and listen with eager anticipation. Oh, how marvelous! Batsy brought new playmates to share my….joy with.
My wild eyes rotate towards the bored, yellow gaze of Sibella, sharing an unspoken agreement of Batsy’s desire to send a few to Loess. A large grins ascends the plain of my face, turning back to look at the Queen as I take a step forward, while my head tilts several degrees to the side. “I will go, Batsy. Sibella will come too, but anyone else is welcome to join in the fun of course.”
The others may not know me directly, especially if they don’t converse with the giants, but surely they will recognize the wicked laughter that starts softly before growing increasingly louder and then abruptly cutting off. Oh, yes. They know me, I think to myself, letting my head tip even further to the side. Or at least they will now.
07-06-2018, 01:24 PM (This post was last modified: 07-06-2018, 01:32 PM by Sinner.)
Hungry
He is so very hungry, but he does not answer to the call of it just yet.
The bloodhound follows the tracks of the other individuals that make their way to the gathering. A gathering to brings them all together, united—though not truly as some serve themselves more than unity of serving a kingdom or leader. He allows himself to settle on the edges of the gathering, assessing each one that has come and comes after him. Curiosity fills his mind, but only a hollowed appearance fills his eyes across his plaster emotionless face.
He recognizes several faces within the crowd, but he does not bother to extend along enough glance towards them in acknowledgement. Sinner does not do well with making friends, and surely he does not consider any of these other members of Sylva to be such. Friends were fickle things after all and only ever used for the benefit of such things.
Sinner allows himself to listen to the queen—someone he has not seen or met until now. He had met the late-king once, but little does the news bother him with the clown king stepping down. Kings are also fickle beings just as friends. Then again, perhaps this now queen would be different. The beast does not give much consideration or hope for her just yet. He waits to see the power within her be drawn, to show her strength, but something within her draws him now.
Something within her calls him.
There is a darkness he has let slipped past his ill-judgement. A familiarity in something he cannot quite grasp, something that perhaps ranks above him entirely. Hell-sent it almost feels like, a master he might have served once before within the depths of the fires itself.
Sinner snaps away from his own thoughts, pulling his gaze to the one mare that cannot help herself to laugh incredibly, annoying-like. The hound growls in annoyance, hoping to cut her off short before speaking. “I will go as well,” he says and then falls silent again.
hey are demented, salivating, bloodthirsty moths flocking to a daring flame. The call that rides on the wind reaches her ears (“Sylvans,” whispered against autumn trees and shadowy crevices) from within her imprisonment. Wound lifts her head carefully from its position against the chilled wall of the cavern, sullen eyes watching as her captor first acknowledges the beckoning call and then drags her from the shade.
Her shoulder aches with the movement of the walk and by the time they reach the gathering the fragile scab has splintered and bled once more. Crevan’s teeth did fine damage to her skin and the tender tissue underneath, forming a ragged gash that seems to refuse to heal. Wound’s tangled forelock lies against her coffee eyes — eyes which scan the crowd with the certain timid shine of a fearful prey-creature.
This is a kingdom meeting, she realizes with a quiet sort of reflection, but her mouth stays silent to their snapping words. A bitter tendril of amusement ripples against her stomach at their silence, each creature staring at the other with sealed lips and haunted eyes. Her humor is washed away by the sight of another mare (dainty and doe-eyed) caught like a butterfly in a jar. Pity sours in Wound’s stomach and her hollow eyes turn toward the other mare with a look so tender it might be the only sign of warmth in the chill of Sylva.
She manages to half-heartedly toss her neck away from Maugrim’s lips, if only to prove she might still have some fight left in her. It’s waning though, a fading candle-flame licking against the cold hand of darkness, and if he rebukes her she will not talk back. Instead she stands among the snapping dogs and howling beasts of the night, eyes hollow and body bleeding and head hanging low.
credit to nat of adoxography.
wound is here in sylva! anyone is welcome to come and torture or talk to her. i'm down for pretty much anything as long as death doesn't happen! just tag wound's account in the opening post <3
While her Partner stands with his lips brushing against their Prey, her armored shoulder brushes against his soft one. Dark, haunted eyes shift between each new face that arrives. There are some she knows and many she does not, but she doesn’t care to know them all. Her tail flicks quietly at her heels and for a moment she reaches her chin over the withers of Partner to inhale the scents of dried blood that linger on their Prey’s skin.
Fresh blood.
Resist it.
She’s desperate to taste the new liquid that pearls on the Prey’s flesh, perhaps to even take a bite of her supple, exhausted muscle, but with a soft growl she pulls her head away and back toward the conversation. Their slippery words mean nothing to her, but with the red-shadowed Prey at the head of their gathering she can guess what is happening. Their plotting and laughter are things she doesn’t care about (when it is time to hunt, Partner will tell her) but she does understand who their Leader is now.
Her teeth reveal themselves when a supple, feminine Prey dares to touch her Partner (though she doesn’t attack her; her only intention to threaten). But besides that, she is content to settle alongside the algae-and-pearl side of her Partner and wait for their casual, sliding words to end.
credit to fangs of bearbones.
nexu's here, but she won't be much help in diplomacy (;
