09-08-2018, 07:58 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cormorant+SC|Metamorphous" rel="stylesheet"><center><div style="width: 506px; position:relative; box-shadow: 0 0 15px #000;background-color:#5d5d5d;"><div style="background: linear-gradient(to top, #000 60%, rgba(255,255,255,0) 90%),url('https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7b/e7/3b/7be73b08e25cb36468c1c16ab4bc13a1.jpg'); background-position: top; background-repeat: no-repeat;width: 500px; position:relative; box-shadow: 0 0 15px #000; border-spacing:0; padding:0; background-color:#000; "><div style="width:500px;"><div style="padding-top: 65px; padding-left: 250px; font: 16px 'Cormorant SC', serif; color:#5d5d5d; text-shadow:1px 1px 1px #191515, 1px 1px 1px #191515">it was a blood-soaked feast<BR>that never ceased</div></div><div style="margin-top: 275px; padding: 20px; text-align:justify; font:12.5px 'Times', serif; color:#a0a0a0; line-height:135%; letter-spacing:0px; text-shadow:1px 1px 1px #000; padding-bottom: 10px;">As the muck settles and the under-sea life around him vaguely stirs, Maugrim begins to notice more than just pieces of shattered rock and once-put-together plates of drowned land. The depths of the ocean knows no light <i>(he knew this wholeheartedly, once leaving the open air for months to rest at the bottom of the sea)</i> and the soft, pulsing light in the distance reminds him that he is - though in his element - truly in a place where even he could not be fully prepared for what it is they are to face. The light reminds him of the precious emerald shell he once held in his proverbial hands, spun across eyesight with the spindles of water he expertly wields. It’s enough to draw his interest even more, peering into the darkest depths with narrowing eyes and with a single hesitant step forward as the world beneath the ocean opens up to meet him.
There are others beside him but he does not notice them, does not care.
<i>Follow the path.</i>
<i>Find her heart.</i>
He has found hearts before; wrapped them in his grasp as he filled their lungs with salt and foam. This heart, however, will be very different - if anything, will be harder to pluck from its keeper’s chest.
Maugrim obeys. He knows nothing of Carnage besides the whispers that accompany his name, but the stallion can recognize the sheer power that emulates from this unfamiliar being <i>(this sentient voice and the forceful throb in his shoulder where dirt and rock wedge itself into his skin and blood)</i> and somehow fills Maugrim with a sense of urgency that normally would not care to find in him.
The stallion finds that it is easy to move forward in the depths. It is not like how he is used to <i>(becoming one with the ocean, invisible and weightless, moving himself as he would move the water)</i> but rather enjoys the solidity of his form anyway and the way his hooves press into the muck, stirring up mud and sand with each careful and calculated step forward. He is physically present now, in his ocean, and does not hide beneath his liquefied state. He has met many bottom-dwellers in his explorations of the thousands of leagues beneath the sea and he is not keen on being struck by a spooked eel or finding the tentacles of a squid wrapped around his legs. There is no sound beneath the pressure of the ocean, but Maugrim believes he can hear the swaying of the dark woods’ branches even though leaves are long since gone and the current of the ocean has long since wavered.
He keeps the sparkling darkness of his eyes trained on the ever-pulsing light, drawn to its heart-like thrum like a moth to a flame. The drowned god notices the deathly stillness that accompanies his slow-moving travel and that there seems to be no quality of life here as he trudges deeper into Pangea’s hearth. There are no fish <i>(not even the slow-moving, electrical predators or even bacteria-like bottom feeders)</i> and no movement, which is enough to keep Maugrim even more on edge, carefully inspecting each turn and twist of the dimly lit path with taut muscles and ears against the thickness of his algae-and-lavender neck.
It is then - when he notices that nothing is what he once thought the ocean to be - that movement stirs to life. Maugrim’s lips pull back immediately, halting his steps at the flurry of motion to his left peripheral, the sound of groaning joints and cracking bones setting his placid features to that of the offensive. With a quick turn of his head <i>(however quick it can be with the thickness of water constantly pulling down on him)</i>, pale and dark tresses floating around his terrible head, the ocean’s master sends a thick tendril of seawater spiraling towards the unsettled mud - it easily could be a fellow companion that is attempting the same quest that has startled him, but Maugrim didn’t care if that was a possibility.
The tendril wraps around something’s neck - he’s yet to decipher what the shape is, save for the fact that it continues to move towards him despite the invisible noose around its neck. Maugrim’s eyes narrow angrily as his lips curl, teeth grinding together as he <i>squeezes</i>, but it does not stop the slow-moving shadow. Quickly, the stallion realizes the reason why.
It’s already dead.
The mare <i>(he guesses because most parts of her are no longer there)</i> is bloated, with eyes bulging from her sockets and soft pieces of flesh dangling from open, rotting wounds. Its eyes are blank and unseeing and as it shuffles closer with half-eaten legs, he notices one eye has been plucked clean from her skull. Her mane and tail float eerily in the pale green light, waving in the water as if the wind from another life has suddenly blown through it. The flesh of her face has peeled back to reveal the ivory underneath, delicate and broken bones that somehow still manage to create the illusion of a horse despite the rotten and soft corpse it truly is.
He is not afraid of the sight - many days has he revisited his watery graves where he keeps most of his collection, enjoying the way their bodies change once life has left their lungs. What really stuns him, however, is how familiar the mare is despite the bloat and rot that manifests nearly every inch of her. He doesn’t remember her name, of course, <i>(he’s never one to ask)</i> but he remembers vividly killing her. She had been green - though it is hard to tell now with the dim light and the constant glow of Pangea’s heart that illuminates her corpse. He almost admires her as she reaches towards him, the smallest hint of a smile beginning to pull at the edges of his pale mouth.
<b>“You were my first,”</b> he muses to himself, wondering if her dead ears would hear him.
The watery noose he has fashioned around her neck continues to tighten, though it does nothing but peel more soft, pliable tissue and skin away from her bones. He allows her to get closer, curious and in awe of his kill that now spazzes with renewed life, wondering how it is he could kill her again if breath no longer resides in her lungs. Her jaw swings open, the muscles in her face unable to hold her mouth together as a guttural groan gurgles from her throat. As she attempts to reach for him <i>(a foolish, sad attempt, he chides)</i>, he suddenly remembers his purpose for being here and reels backward, moving away from the threat of her shining teeth.
He <i>tsks</i>, his eyes widening as she lurches for him again, seemingly building up strength and speed, perhaps motivated by being in the presence of her murderer. Maugrim’s grip around her neck tightens ever more - so much so that the only thing to be seen from his watery hand on her is her spine, as the water he wields has peeled away any remaining tissue or muscle which now floats eerily around them. She reaches for him again, the spine of her neck creaking against the pressure he puts on it, though in this watery world, he cannot evade her yawning mouth as easily the second time. The reanimated corpse finds purchase on the underside of his neck, clamping down on the soft skin that he had tried to turn from her with another throw of his head away from her.
His eyes darken and he shouts with the pain, forcing the watery noose tighter and tighter. She clamps down even harder <i>(striving to find the jugular, searching for justice)</i>, her unhinged mouth holding him firmly. Maugrim holds her just as closely, attempting to pull away, before sending a heavy current that focuses in on her head. The force of his current nearly knocks himself to the ground, screaming as the feeling of her locked teeth rip through his skin.
Maugrim straightens as the pressure of her mouth against his throat subsides, blood clouding the water before him. He wrinkles his nose, noticing that the heavy current he had sent did not knock her entire body to the ground - but because of his tight grip around her neck, only her head drifts slowly to the bottom.
The rest of her body stands there, quivering for a moment before he releases her from his grasp and watches it crumble before him.
Maugrim stares at the bloated form for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. He calls the water back to him, relinquishing his grip on it for the time being, and turns over his shoulder so that the light of Pangea’s heart reflects in his abysmal eyes. He turns from her without a thought, just as he had done when he killed her the first time and continues on his way towards the epicenter.
As the stallion gets closer to the heart, he is all too aware of the trail of blood he leaves in his wake. It is a shining beacon to all that is around him and he wonders what else lingers in this drowned kingdom that would be attracted to the smell of fresh blood. It is this notion that quickens his pace as much as he can, willing the water to part for the thickness of his body and to make his travel a bit more streamlined, though the motion only causes more blood to fall from the open wound in his neck. It’s as if Pangea herself needed his blood - a pound of flesh - for the wound billows and blows, never clotting. He can feel himself weakening, growing tired, fading. The feeling disrupts his thoughts and his power over the ocean falters, sputtering in tiny gasps as he attempts to continue to move forward, his eyes set on the glow of the green in the center. He felt sick as if a disease has spread through him and now thrums wildly - perhaps the corpse’s bite was not as harmless as he had assumed.
<i>Find her heart.</i>
The command echoes clearly in the drowned god’s mind, causing his eyes to glance up once more at the ever-nearing glow. His movements are slower now as the wound begins to finally clot, but the feeling of weakness and stupor does not subside. His teeth grind as he moves ever closer, his thoughts churning idly.
Why is he doing this? Why follow the command? Why find this kingdom - why try to resurrect it? It is beautiful the way it is - drowned beneath the ocean’s fist, a solemn and dark place that perhaps only Maugrim could truly find lovely. These thoughts cause him to halt, shifting his gaze around the shadowy land around him - a kingdom made barren, a deeply sought after Atlantis.
<i>And it could all be mine.</i>
The last thought is met with searing pain throughout his body - the dirt and grit that had embedded itself into his marrow now resound in protest. It wracks his muscles and tissue and blood with a darkening magic that is loyal to only one - and it is not him. He groans, quaking beneath the sheer weight of it, nearly crumbling to his knees. It cows him, this dark magic, and he screams in rage. It did not matter what he wanted; it would not be his.
<i>Not yet.</i>
Again his body writhes in pain, the once-dimly pulsing green center now more vivid than ever, angry and twisting with rage. This time the pain is enough to send him to his knees, throwing himself into the muck beneath him. His lips ripple with frustration and anger, finding no purpose in carrying out the mission that has been given to him now that he has seen the land stretched before him. Pangea could be so much more than what lay above the ocean, so much more than what Beqanna already has.
But the dark magic that pulses within him and the same magic that pulses through Pangea does not agree.
And for that reason alone he leaves the idea there in the muck, lifting himself from the ground to stand shakily. The pain subsides as it sees that he has shifted his allegiance once again back to Carnage’s original purpose, allowing Maugrim to come within feet of the heart without any repercussions. The stallion stares blankly at the pale green light that illuminates the terribleness of his face. He is expressionless save for the slight twitch of his pale lips and the ethereal floating of his mane and forelock from the water surrounding him. </div><div style="padding-left: 355px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; text-transform:lowercase; font: 16px 'Metamorphous', cursive; color:#5d5d5d; text-shadow:.5px .5px 1px #191515, 1px 1px 1px #191515, .5px .5px 1px #fff;">m a u g r i m.</div></div></center>
TL;DR - I apologize for it being a novel, I didn't mean for it to be, I swear
Maugrim fights a reanimated corpse of his first victim, using hydrokinesis to hold her in place while using a current of water to effectively decapitate her.
Maugrim then decides Pangea doesn't need to be resurrected and would rather become the King of the drowned version of it, but obviously changes his mind due to the fact that dark magic/Pangea/Carnage can be rather convincing.
Permission to reference Dacia (Maugrim’s first victim) given by Calcifier via FB message
There are others beside him but he does not notice them, does not care.
<i>Follow the path.</i>
<i>Find her heart.</i>
He has found hearts before; wrapped them in his grasp as he filled their lungs with salt and foam. This heart, however, will be very different - if anything, will be harder to pluck from its keeper’s chest.
Maugrim obeys. He knows nothing of Carnage besides the whispers that accompany his name, but the stallion can recognize the sheer power that emulates from this unfamiliar being <i>(this sentient voice and the forceful throb in his shoulder where dirt and rock wedge itself into his skin and blood)</i> and somehow fills Maugrim with a sense of urgency that normally would not care to find in him.
The stallion finds that it is easy to move forward in the depths. It is not like how he is used to <i>(becoming one with the ocean, invisible and weightless, moving himself as he would move the water)</i> but rather enjoys the solidity of his form anyway and the way his hooves press into the muck, stirring up mud and sand with each careful and calculated step forward. He is physically present now, in his ocean, and does not hide beneath his liquefied state. He has met many bottom-dwellers in his explorations of the thousands of leagues beneath the sea and he is not keen on being struck by a spooked eel or finding the tentacles of a squid wrapped around his legs. There is no sound beneath the pressure of the ocean, but Maugrim believes he can hear the swaying of the dark woods’ branches even though leaves are long since gone and the current of the ocean has long since wavered.
He keeps the sparkling darkness of his eyes trained on the ever-pulsing light, drawn to its heart-like thrum like a moth to a flame. The drowned god notices the deathly stillness that accompanies his slow-moving travel and that there seems to be no quality of life here as he trudges deeper into Pangea’s hearth. There are no fish <i>(not even the slow-moving, electrical predators or even bacteria-like bottom feeders)</i> and no movement, which is enough to keep Maugrim even more on edge, carefully inspecting each turn and twist of the dimly lit path with taut muscles and ears against the thickness of his algae-and-lavender neck.
It is then - when he notices that nothing is what he once thought the ocean to be - that movement stirs to life. Maugrim’s lips pull back immediately, halting his steps at the flurry of motion to his left peripheral, the sound of groaning joints and cracking bones setting his placid features to that of the offensive. With a quick turn of his head <i>(however quick it can be with the thickness of water constantly pulling down on him)</i>, pale and dark tresses floating around his terrible head, the ocean’s master sends a thick tendril of seawater spiraling towards the unsettled mud - it easily could be a fellow companion that is attempting the same quest that has startled him, but Maugrim didn’t care if that was a possibility.
The tendril wraps around something’s neck - he’s yet to decipher what the shape is, save for the fact that it continues to move towards him despite the invisible noose around its neck. Maugrim’s eyes narrow angrily as his lips curl, teeth grinding together as he <i>squeezes</i>, but it does not stop the slow-moving shadow. Quickly, the stallion realizes the reason why.
It’s already dead.
The mare <i>(he guesses because most parts of her are no longer there)</i> is bloated, with eyes bulging from her sockets and soft pieces of flesh dangling from open, rotting wounds. Its eyes are blank and unseeing and as it shuffles closer with half-eaten legs, he notices one eye has been plucked clean from her skull. Her mane and tail float eerily in the pale green light, waving in the water as if the wind from another life has suddenly blown through it. The flesh of her face has peeled back to reveal the ivory underneath, delicate and broken bones that somehow still manage to create the illusion of a horse despite the rotten and soft corpse it truly is.
He is not afraid of the sight - many days has he revisited his watery graves where he keeps most of his collection, enjoying the way their bodies change once life has left their lungs. What really stuns him, however, is how familiar the mare is despite the bloat and rot that manifests nearly every inch of her. He doesn’t remember her name, of course, <i>(he’s never one to ask)</i> but he remembers vividly killing her. She had been green - though it is hard to tell now with the dim light and the constant glow of Pangea’s heart that illuminates her corpse. He almost admires her as she reaches towards him, the smallest hint of a smile beginning to pull at the edges of his pale mouth.
<b>“You were my first,”</b> he muses to himself, wondering if her dead ears would hear him.
The watery noose he has fashioned around her neck continues to tighten, though it does nothing but peel more soft, pliable tissue and skin away from her bones. He allows her to get closer, curious and in awe of his kill that now spazzes with renewed life, wondering how it is he could kill her again if breath no longer resides in her lungs. Her jaw swings open, the muscles in her face unable to hold her mouth together as a guttural groan gurgles from her throat. As she attempts to reach for him <i>(a foolish, sad attempt, he chides)</i>, he suddenly remembers his purpose for being here and reels backward, moving away from the threat of her shining teeth.
He <i>tsks</i>, his eyes widening as she lurches for him again, seemingly building up strength and speed, perhaps motivated by being in the presence of her murderer. Maugrim’s grip around her neck tightens ever more - so much so that the only thing to be seen from his watery hand on her is her spine, as the water he wields has peeled away any remaining tissue or muscle which now floats eerily around them. She reaches for him again, the spine of her neck creaking against the pressure he puts on it, though in this watery world, he cannot evade her yawning mouth as easily the second time. The reanimated corpse finds purchase on the underside of his neck, clamping down on the soft skin that he had tried to turn from her with another throw of his head away from her.
His eyes darken and he shouts with the pain, forcing the watery noose tighter and tighter. She clamps down even harder <i>(striving to find the jugular, searching for justice)</i>, her unhinged mouth holding him firmly. Maugrim holds her just as closely, attempting to pull away, before sending a heavy current that focuses in on her head. The force of his current nearly knocks himself to the ground, screaming as the feeling of her locked teeth rip through his skin.
Maugrim straightens as the pressure of her mouth against his throat subsides, blood clouding the water before him. He wrinkles his nose, noticing that the heavy current he had sent did not knock her entire body to the ground - but because of his tight grip around her neck, only her head drifts slowly to the bottom.
The rest of her body stands there, quivering for a moment before he releases her from his grasp and watches it crumble before him.
Maugrim stares at the bloated form for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. He calls the water back to him, relinquishing his grip on it for the time being, and turns over his shoulder so that the light of Pangea’s heart reflects in his abysmal eyes. He turns from her without a thought, just as he had done when he killed her the first time and continues on his way towards the epicenter.
As the stallion gets closer to the heart, he is all too aware of the trail of blood he leaves in his wake. It is a shining beacon to all that is around him and he wonders what else lingers in this drowned kingdom that would be attracted to the smell of fresh blood. It is this notion that quickens his pace as much as he can, willing the water to part for the thickness of his body and to make his travel a bit more streamlined, though the motion only causes more blood to fall from the open wound in his neck. It’s as if Pangea herself needed his blood - a pound of flesh - for the wound billows and blows, never clotting. He can feel himself weakening, growing tired, fading. The feeling disrupts his thoughts and his power over the ocean falters, sputtering in tiny gasps as he attempts to continue to move forward, his eyes set on the glow of the green in the center. He felt sick as if a disease has spread through him and now thrums wildly - perhaps the corpse’s bite was not as harmless as he had assumed.
<i>Find her heart.</i>
The command echoes clearly in the drowned god’s mind, causing his eyes to glance up once more at the ever-nearing glow. His movements are slower now as the wound begins to finally clot, but the feeling of weakness and stupor does not subside. His teeth grind as he moves ever closer, his thoughts churning idly.
Why is he doing this? Why follow the command? Why find this kingdom - why try to resurrect it? It is beautiful the way it is - drowned beneath the ocean’s fist, a solemn and dark place that perhaps only Maugrim could truly find lovely. These thoughts cause him to halt, shifting his gaze around the shadowy land around him - a kingdom made barren, a deeply sought after Atlantis.
<i>And it could all be mine.</i>
The last thought is met with searing pain throughout his body - the dirt and grit that had embedded itself into his marrow now resound in protest. It wracks his muscles and tissue and blood with a darkening magic that is loyal to only one - and it is not him. He groans, quaking beneath the sheer weight of it, nearly crumbling to his knees. It cows him, this dark magic, and he screams in rage. It did not matter what he wanted; it would not be his.
<i>Not yet.</i>
Again his body writhes in pain, the once-dimly pulsing green center now more vivid than ever, angry and twisting with rage. This time the pain is enough to send him to his knees, throwing himself into the muck beneath him. His lips ripple with frustration and anger, finding no purpose in carrying out the mission that has been given to him now that he has seen the land stretched before him. Pangea could be so much more than what lay above the ocean, so much more than what Beqanna already has.
But the dark magic that pulses within him and the same magic that pulses through Pangea does not agree.
And for that reason alone he leaves the idea there in the muck, lifting himself from the ground to stand shakily. The pain subsides as it sees that he has shifted his allegiance once again back to Carnage’s original purpose, allowing Maugrim to come within feet of the heart without any repercussions. The stallion stares blankly at the pale green light that illuminates the terribleness of his face. He is expressionless save for the slight twitch of his pale lips and the ethereal floating of his mane and forelock from the water surrounding him. </div><div style="padding-left: 355px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; text-transform:lowercase; font: 16px 'Metamorphous', cursive; color:#5d5d5d; text-shadow:.5px .5px 1px #191515, 1px 1px 1px #191515, .5px .5px 1px #fff;">m a u g r i m.</div></div></center>
TL;DR - I apologize for it being a novel, I didn't mean for it to be, I swear
Maugrim fights a reanimated corpse of his first victim, using hydrokinesis to hold her in place while using a current of water to effectively decapitate her.
Maugrim then decides Pangea doesn't need to be resurrected and would rather become the King of the drowned version of it, but obviously changes his mind due to the fact that dark magic/Pangea/Carnage can be rather convincing.
Permission to reference Dacia (Maugrim’s first victim) given by Calcifier via FB message