• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    Thread Rating:
    • 0 Vote(s) - 0 Average
    • 1
    • 2
    • 3
    • 4
    • 5
    [open quest]  [ROUND 3] crimson blood on my skin
    #1

    i can feel the flames on my lips; crimson blood on my skin


    The battels begin, and her black heart quickens in anticipation.

    She watches them all at once, blow and strike of hoof and tooth. The fear, the anger, the confusion. Violence hangs heavy in the air around her, a luxurious cloak, and she lets it settle across her shoulder as the battles slowly begin to end. Some are quick, others drawn-out, but all are what she wants. Well, all but one, and the antlered mare will soon learn exactly why Starlace does not like to be disobeyed.

    To the others, whether victorious or defeated, she a gives a moment of peace. Blackness will swallow them, and they float, bodiless and without pain. The time passes with no special speed - perhaps it feels like a minute, perhaps like a month. When the darkness fades, they are on the Plain again. There are no signs of the earlier battles, just mottled red-brown earth. 

    They are not alone this time either – or are they?

    Ahead of them – a horse steps from between the pillars. This horse they know better even than the first they fought, for this horse is them. Themselves before they arrived here, anyway. If they had lost traits to arrive, this other horse still has them.

    The other horse attacks, and the second round of battles begin.


    Starlace



    Rules:

    • Your character’s wounds have been healed and they are now being attacked by themselves. This horse will have all of the character’s actual traits (those listed in the database, not those granted by this quest)
    • The character cannot be reasoned with (though you may try) and will continue to viciously attack in whatever way they are able until you – or they – are incapacitated or dead (no deaths are permanent)
    • Neither character can escape the dome
    • Describe the ensuing battle in a post of no more than 750 words – there should be a clear victor by the end
    • Failure to follow directions or to respond to a round risks temporary defects/consequences.
    Entries are due Jan. 25 by 4:00 AM CST

    For failure to respond, Elk will have hallucinations of her loved ones dying violently in front of her. This will be temporary (minimum 6 BQ months) or can be permanent – player’s choice. Elk is allowed to keep the trait she chose in the first round, in addition to any traits she previously had. The trait is genetic, please post in updates.
    Reply
    #2

    sing to me, and I could forgive you

    The pain leeches away, but floating in the darkness Luath can imagine that he didn’t drown when the water closed over his head, because this doesn’t feel like death. It doesn’t erase the horror, of it having been wearing his father’s face.

    Warmth and light seep back into his consciousness, and he opens his eyes, resigned to find himself back on blood-red dirt. A scrape of hoof against the ground, and a shape moves across from him, silhouetted a moment against the red of the dome wall until he blinks his vision clear, and realizes why it blends so well for a moment – this familiar form is half red itself, hard to see against the red barrier.

    For a moment, Luthe is mesmerized by the glint of light off of scales, admiring his own form for the first time outside of his reflection. For the first time in his life, he understands the way stranger’s eyes follow him; it takes a moment to shake himself free of the compulsion and it charges him, long jaw open and filled with too many teeth. Luath throws himself to the side to avoid the snap of those jaws, and launches upwards with dizzying relief that the darkness had healed the wing.

    Even so, he falters for a heartbeat when his doppelganger’s body brushes his on the way up, the insidious hum of ’Land, just land’ almost catching before he spirals away. His other form snarls its displeasure below, at his escape.

    It’s clear that the other Luath isn’t missing its magic, like he is; Luthe can see the sheen of his dragon scales, saw the teeth, felt the hypnosis attempt to take hold. He thanks whatever gods might still be watching that the water has gone – unlike his foolishly doomed stand against his magical sire, he stands a chance now. As it is, it will be a match of who can be more clever: Luthe might be very familiar with his own talents, but attack-Luath is used to training with his winged family as well.

    Unfortunately, he has no distance weapons. His wings allow him an easy escape, but it will be hard to injure his other self from above, his topline well protected by dragon scales. And he can’t allow himself to be touched – if attack-Luath can touch him, there’s a good chance he will simply allow himself to be destroyed.

    Feinting downwards, he draws it towards the horn pillar and then lands behind it, whirling around to lash out with his hind end, kicking again and again and again, trying to drive him back against the pillar and kick out at places he couldn’t reach well from above– underbelly and legs, chest, face: places more lightly scaled and vulnerable. He forces himself to disconnect from the idea that he’s attacking himself, and gets a sense of morbid satisfaction when he feels his hooves connect.

    They’re backing towards the pillar, but it lunges forward in the moment he is touching ground to kick again, and teeth sink into Luthe’s haunches, making him cry out. Luthe kicks out anyway, the low strike finding purchase on his opponent’s knee, but attack-Luath does not let go, despite a high keening that indicates the kicking is making as a strong impression as the teeth that are shredding his hindquarters. ’Submit,’ his own internal voice coos, ‘Give in.’

    Luthe bucks against his other self’s hold, but fails to loosen the tight grip of predatory jaws. He’s fighting the compulsion, knowledge making him last longer than some, but knows he can’t last forever against it in this direct contact, the kelpie pressing forward to making his skin touch more of Luthe, and Luthe’s kicks less and less effective. There’s a fog growing in his mind, heavy and dark, when a tendril of an idea slips through.

    Against every instinct he has ever had, Luthe gives in; he lets himself fall to his knees, head drooping. It slides him off of the kelpie’s teeth, and his opponent is surprised and then delighted, taking a step back to evaluate, the pause Luthe knew he would take before he decides how to kill, to savor it, while his prey is subdued. Ignoring his screaming body, Luath lunges up and back, knocking his other self to the ground. And then before he can change his mind, refusing himself that moment of appreciation, he brings his red hooves down on his doppelganger’s skull with a sickening crunch.

    luath
    Reply
    #3
    ** this post is mature due to gore **

    here comes a candle to light you to bed
    here comes a chopper to chop off your head

    The darkness that takes Ripley away from Ryatah’s body is a blessing. She exists in total, numbing darkness for a moment of peace she has not experienced since she was a foal. She tries to forget everything, though her mind is unaccustomed to shutting out bad thoughts, and the darkness before her eyes is a blank canvas on which her memories dance.

    It does not last forever.

    She's on her hooves again on the plains and for a moment she fears that things are about to repeat - that Ryatah will appear once again and the pair will be trapped in this horrific loop until the end of time. However, in this circle of red, it is not her mother who appears. She recognizes herself, her monster-self, instantly and knows what's coming next. She knows because she remembers every single face she had devoured as that creature. She remembers their valiant but ultimately futile attempts to win against a creature designed solely for the hunt.

    A part of her, the part of her that remembers those faces, is tempted to stand still where she is and just allow what this to happen. Ripley feels the weight of her sins pressing down on her, the latest and worst - whether or not it was the real Ryatah - the final crack to cause it all to fall apart.

    But, like all her victims, there are powerful instincts within her which will not let her just accept death. Futile or not, she will fight until her heart is crushed within those gleaming jaws. Maybe then she will get some real peace.

    The monster’s clicking call sends a chill down Ripley’s spine as she experiences for the first time what it is like to be hunted. Soft, sad eyes watch the shift in the weight before her monster-self charges. Like with Ryatah, as they meet a swing of Ripley’s ram-horned head jerks towards her opponent but the attack bounces off armoured plates. Every part of her aches from the collision and she feels that tricky knife-wielding tail slice at her belly as the monster turns for another attack. It’s a shallow enough cut, not deep enough to spill her guts though blood does spray on the ground below her. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of her blood follows.

    They both roar in unison - the feral, nasty call of the monster and the desperate anger of the equine - when they come together again. Soft flesh bruises and cuts against the sharp plates adorning the monster. Those wicked teeth and that sharp tail aren’t even needed, though they help make quick work of this fight Her monster-self is always wild but there is an extra ferocity now, as though it can sense that it is fighting its once-self and wishes to erase the weakness from its past. Ripley’s attacks cause some bruising on her opponent but it isn’t long before she has been sliced and bitten and bruised so many times her dappled coat is covered in her own blood and it spills freely onto the ground below her. She can’t reach the soft parts of her other-self, these curved horns don’t have a point she can use to slice tendon. Cannot spill the acidic blood that is strong enough to eat through that armour with the tools she has been given. These horns are mighty, but they're a tease - a false sense that she was not left defenseless when she was stripped of everything else.

    Still she struggles on until she sees the final blow that will take her down just before it comes. It is poetic, after all - that now  this monster sinks its teeth into the flesh at her neck and pulls her down to the ground with a mighty tug. She had damaged Ryatah’s throat with her blunt herbivore teeth, but Ripley’s throat is absolutely shredded as she collides with the earth.

    The last thing she hears is that dreadful clicking noise as those dripping jaws tear into her belly at the same spot where she had first bled, her body jerking as her muscles and insides are torn and devoured. She feels as her other-self begins to eat her while her heart still pumps. Tastes and smells her own blood as her vision blacks out from the pain and damage.

    And yet, all Ripley is thinking of is her mom and how she will be with her again soon.

    ripley & nostromo
    XXVIII-----

    Reply
    #4

    Oriash

    they promised that dreams can come true

    There is a moment of peace. It lasts for a time that Ori can’t quite discern, but still, it is not long enough. She enjoys the peace, the weightless floating, the blackness around her, the senseless nothing of this inbetween place. Yet it comes to an end and leaves her back on the blood-stained Plains. Her injuries feel healed, at least, but she does not want to be here. Ori is no fighter, though maybe in some other life with some other set of choices she could have been. Ori is a dreamer, a painter, a creator. Though the body is no longer there, Ori still sees the image of Kagerus, neck broken, near the edge of the red dome that surrounds her. If she had her powers, she is sure the illusion would paint itself there, unwilling to go away.

    Ori watches the pillars until she sees...herself? No, that can’t be, can it? Ori tugs for the familiar threads of magic, trying to stop what must be an illusion. If it is though, it is not of her making. Her powers are gone, and she is left with only the wings on her back. The other her though has her horns and, if Kagerus had her traits, Ori assumes that the other Ori must have her illusionism.

    How can she defeat a more powerful version of herself?

    She doesn’t have time to ponder this though, for not-her is already charging, antlers lowered. Ori rushes forward a few steps, using the momentum to launch herself into the air but not-her does the same, aiming to crash into her with a recklessness that the real Ori does not know. This not-Ori is fierce, wild, and Ori is forced to veer off course and nearly slams into the dome that surrounds them. She rights herself, landing as not-Ori does the same, charging again without hesitation. Ori runs, moving to the right and trying to circle toward not-Ori’s side, but not-her anticipates, moves with her, knows exactly what she intends to do before she can even do it.

    Ori loves her wings, but in this moment she realizes they were the wrong choice. They were her choice, of course, because she values life and freedom and beauty far more than the weapon of war that once sat upon her head, though in this moment she misses those antlers. They are no longer just the reminder of her mother but something of value. This not-Ori is everything the real one will never be, everything that some part of her longs to be and she wonders, briefly, if this not-Ori is just plucked from her mind or from some alternate universe.

    Ori launches herself into the air again, but so does her counterpart, and this time Ori is too late to move out of the way. Not-Ori crashes into her, and she goes careening into the red dome with a scream and the sound of searing flesh before crashing to the dirt.. She can’t figure out how to get a hit in, can’t figure out what she can possibly do with just hooves and teeth to illusions and horns. She scrambles to her feet unsteadily as the dome seems to close in on them, forcing her closer and closer. She is nothing compared to this other Ori, this not-Ori, this better Ori.

    Then it hits her, the illusion of pain, the thing she has not mastered in real life. She knows it is an illusion, for not-Ori stands at one side of the much smaller dome (an illusion, probably, she thinks) and Ori at the other. It doesn’t matter that she knows it is an illusion, the pain rips through her, tears into her chest and begins to pick her apart piece by piece from the inside out. Her knees buckle, because even the illusion of pain is enough to kill. Not-Ori tightens her hold on the illusion, pulling until Ori cries out in agony, the scream unearthly, impossible. Blood bubbles to her mouth, her body giving in to the illusion and reacting as it thinks it should, her insides shredding beneath some unreality.

    It is fitting, to die this way, to lose the fight between reality and unreality. It is fitting, she thinks, that the other Ori lives, this better Ori. She is fierce and strong and everything Ori could never be. She is powerful.

    When death finds her and the world goes black, it simply feels right.

    but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too.

    Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission

    Reply
    #5
    He thought it was done; oh how foolish could he be? He should have known better; nothing like this is every done that easy. Aten stood there in pain for a moment, his wounds bleeding and leaving a trail down his skin as his blood fell to the ground. His newly formed horn was sore from it’s use in stabbing Archam’s chest, but it wasn’t much compared to the rest.

    And then, in the blink of an eye, literally, it was gone. One moment, he was in great pain, the next, it was as if the fight never happened. He knew magic was a strange thing, but he hadn’t experienced anything like this before. The only thing wrong was the darkness that surrounded him. It was a void, empty, endless, and if not for his shock at the pain disappearing, Aten would’ve begun swinging his limbs violently in an effort to find the ground again.

    The Plain reappeared beneath his hooves, and for a moment, Aten thought everything was now at peace. But then another horse appeared from between the pillars, and this one, well… he had no words, much less a thought process going through his brain.

    The horse that appeared between the pillars was… him. A perfect mirror copy of the golden stallion, minus the new horn on his head. Same flowing mane, same golden color, same rock-solid hooves… and, as he was about to find out, like Archam… the same gifts.

    Aten and his copy hardly exchanged a glance before the copy allowed the gifts he possessed, Aten’s gifts, to take over, his coat hardening like a diamond and shifting into dragon scales. His hooves turned into the familiar four-clawed paws, and his mouth and nostrils began billowing steam as his chest cavity’s temperature increased.

    Aten swore under his breath… how many of these fights would he have to go through? How many of his own demons would he have to keep facing before he finally surrendered to the knowledge that he would possibly never get over them? Whoever was behind this whole mess had a twisted sense of humor, that was for sure.

    Little did he know that this could potentially be a test, but he wasn’t concerned about that.

    The golden copy let out a bellow that was between a rage-filled whinny and a pained growl, no doubt from the beast stirring in his blood, before charging at the real one. Aten reared up and met it in the middle, lashing out with his front hooves, his bachelor’s nature coming out strong. His tender flesh was no match for the claws his copy sported however, screaming in pain as he felt them tear through his skin and the muscle and tissue underneath.

    One claw caught him on the junction between his elbow and breast bone, getting stuck for a few moments and taking a big portion of skin and muscle with it. The golden stallion’s cry was loud enough to shatter glass, blood gushing from the wound and spilling down his chest before hitting the ground and turning it a dark burgundy. In response, Aten’s teeth met the copy’s crest, gripping as hard as he could so that when the copy fell away from Aten’s body, leverage would take over and the copy’s skin would break too.

    That plan worked, for Aten’s mouth suddenly became filled with blood, spitting it out with disgust and cringing at the metallic taste on his tongue. He faced the copy, and decided to take charge this time, galloping toward him with the intent on lashing out with his teeth.

    The two stallions danced around each other like feuding bachelors over a filly, hooves, teeth, and claws attacking skin without hesitation. So much blood was on the ground, and indistinguishable from each other’s, one might question why neither stallion was dead. Aten’s body ached, and he knew he had to do something.

    There was only one thing though…

    Letting out a breath, Aten charged again, the copy rising on it’s hind legs to meet him. Aten’s horn was in position, and, much like last time, he stabbed the copy in it’s chest. At that moment, however, it’s claws came down and stabbed Aten’s eyes, the golden stallion seeing white for a moment before everything went dark.

    He tried to stay standing, but his body had enough… he went down, slowly, hearing a thump as the copy did the same…

    Darkness… could be a welcoming friend…
    Reply
    #6
    Blackness.

    A groan passes her lips, but just as the last bit of air sighs from her lungs, everything returns.

    Again, she is in the plains confronted by the pillars. Confusion paints across her face and furrows her brows while she catalogues her surroundings. Fear trickles into her mind, leading her to believe that Bronsonn will rise from the ashes, but there is another face staring at her from between the columns. Their eyes lock. The shadowed figure’s face flashes familiarly. A kaleidoscope of colors brightens her gaze at first then maliciously darkens as the space between them melts away.

    ”You’re---“ Cyprin begins only to be interrupted, ”me.” They’re imposters, to each other. Lowering her head, the coiling antlers pose as a threat to the woman standing between the pillars. ”No closer!” But it doesn’t stop the secondary mare, her head lacking antlers but adorned with those dragon eyes. ”Maybe then I’m the,” ”Fraud. Yes, you are.” Cyprin’s confidence wavers, laying open an opportunity for the second to attack.

    A rock emerges from the dirt, given life by magic. It rolls, gaining momentum in its distance, before catapulting forward, hitting Cyprin’s knee. Blood immediately trickles down; the trauma met with a startled yell and sideways stumble. Opening her eyes, she looks down to see the living golem, then up to her imposter. Fed by a sudden rush of adrenaline, Cyprin lunges forward with her head still lowered, attempting to ram her opponent and gore her, but a golem jumping at her face deviates the plan. Cyprin swerves to her left, just narrowly missing the attack. She turns right again, steering toward her stagnant counterpart. Although not a warrior at heart, Cyprin is driven to protect herself and survive.

    She looks to jerk her head and pierce her rival, but instead turns to her left, shifting her weight and kicking out. Making contact, Cyprin nearly gasps with surprise but keeps going with mounting rage. Another kick, but it grazes her replica as she dances away from the following buck. Cyprin plants her back legs and glances over her right shoulder, angrily observing her opponent. Her breaths are labored from the exertion; it creates pause as she turns to level her dark eyes on her imposter. The opposite Cyprin, steady and reserved, stands placidly back between the pillars. The wind tousles her locks, making her almost too serene to be here. Even despite being kicked, the mirror image radiates a smug peacefulness.

    Cyprin lurches forward.

    The ground trembles.

    Underneath her, the earth chips away as a giant creature comes to life. A ten-foot crack splits, gaping open like a mouth. Gasping, Cyprin uses her hindquarters as coils and jumps herself as best she can just to avoid falling into an earthy grave. It claps its mouth together, an attempt to grab her legs, but the moment she bypasses the obstacle, the magic releases. The small chasm remains, abandoned. She lands hard, but rushes forward, stabbing her spiraled antlers.

    But another golem - larger, angrier – pommels her. It grabs her horns before she reaches her twin self, breaking them from her skull. A scream claws the air and she reels back from the initial shock, but there is no pain and no blood. Losing her footing, Cyprin stumbles and falls, her muscles refusing to lift her again.

    Stepping forward, the secondary looks down, holding her gaze. Silence swallows them until even the dirt and dust settle. ”You shouldn’t have killed Bronsonn,” a sharpness lines the edges of her voice while her lip curls in a distasteful snarl, but their eyes never stray from each other. Even as the fraudulent Cyprin threads her magic into the fallen antlers, she does not break eye contact, distracting the fallen Cyprin by drowning her in remorse. ”You killed him,” the imposter says again all while the horns come to life and edge toward their former owner. Each time the fallen girl tries to look at the flickering motion, her counterpart steps closer until they are inches apart, one towering over the other.

    ”Welcome to your Hell, darling. You deserve it,” her expression hardened, the secondary Cyprin gives a final boost to her magic. The horns dive forward, plunging into the first Cyprin’s body. One buries into her ribs, ripping sinew and fracturing bone. Another, stabs upward, into her neck.

    Choking on her blood, gasping, Cyprin looks up one last time at her imposter before falling limp, the only replaying memory being that of her brother dying.
    Reply
    #7
    I'm going to say this is marked Mature for gratuitous gore :|

    cold in the violence after the war
    hope is a fire to keep us warm

    In a way, it’s a blessing, slipping into darkness in the wake of her unaccountable sorrow. It’s impossible to say how long she lay suspended, but when she awakens, she finds herself whole and well once more. Too much so. It’s foolish to miss something that offers only a life of uncompromising pain, yet she does. Others might view it as a burden, but it is her burden.

    Choking back the lingering emotion, she scrambles to her feet, wary gaze shifting to the offending pillars once more. This time it comes as no surprise when another figure appears between them. She squints for a moment, but as the horse steps forward and she recognizes the familiar visage, her eyes widen in shock.

    It’s surreal to watch one's own self step towards them. Ears flattening against the wild tangle of her mane, she eyes the clone with suspicion and distrust. They would be the same, were it not for the fact that the doppelganger wore Brazen’s original face, not this be-horned one.

    As before, the other horse attacks without a word. Brazen is prepared this time. There could be no mistaken intentions anymore. Whether it had merely been sent to test her mettle, or whether it truly wishes her harm is irrelevant. She isn’t about to wait and find out.

    For a period of time, the two Brazen’s dance around each other, one naked, doing her utmost to avoid the brutal edges of bone while attempting well-timed strikes with tooth or horn or hoof, the other charging heedlessly and without finesse, her body a battering ram. Brazen, the real one, is growing ever more leery, realizing with each failed strike just how impossible it is to cleave through the bone and granite-skin her counterpart had inherited. Though she can appreciate the impressive defensive nature of her stolen abilities, this is not the manner in which she would have chosen to discover it.

    They are too well matched. Equals in too many ways, too well versed in the moves the other would make before they were made. But as they continue their fruitless dance, sweat beginning to darken their skin, Brazen begins to see a weakness. They are both fit, their stamina above average. Brazen’s daily need to run had seen to that. But, for the first time in a very long time, Brazen does not have the significant weight of her armor impeding her. A weight that would, inevitably, cause her counterpart to tire faster.

    She does not need to fight through impossible armor into a doomed end. She only needs to last longer. Eventually, as the false Brazen tired, her stoneskin would fail.

    That would be her opportunity to end this stalemate.

    And so, it continues, until both are breathing heavily, sweat darkening the red and white of her skin. Until, so briefly as to be almost unnoticeable, she sees it. The flicker of weakness. The sight bolsters her, giving her a second wind. Keeps her tired legs moving. Until the stone fails completely, and the doppelganger struggles to summon it once more.

    Seizing the moment, teeth gritted and gaze focused, she bursts forward, dropping her head and shoulder to ram into the false Brazen’s chest and neck. One of the few areas on her body not protected by bone. The bruising force of skin against bone is drowned out by the shriek emitted from her counterparts lip as horn meets flesh, scraping and grinding against the bone that, given only another inch, would have protected the vulnerable flesh.

    As they break apart, blood splattering her grim features and dripping from the horn, she watches the other Brazen stumble backwards, a wound gaping where chest and neck meet. Brazen does not stop however. She cannot, not yet. Charging forward once more, she swings her head, using her force and momentum (and conveniently provided horns) to rip through her opponents unprotected neck. The weary and injured state of the false Brazen, coupled with her excessive force, serves to produce a gory scene as horn rends flesh. Blood sprays as her trachea separates from her neck, cutting off her shriek midway.

    Dripping and red, Brazen slows and turns to survey her body as she falls almost gracefully in death. Her gaze is curiously devoid of emotion as she watches. Later she could weep. Now though? Now she could only stare in the face of victory, wondering what might step from those pillars next.


    Brazen


    Reply
    #8

    hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

    He does not fight the darkness when it comes.

    Does not fight when it slips into his veins and pull his eyes shut because he has felt it so many times before, in one way or another. He lets go of his hold onto the fabric of this reality, lets it slip between his fingers, and sinks into the abyss—swallowing it down until he can feel his body begin to knit back together, the bruises fading, and the scrapes growing steadily more shallow. He waits until he feels that tug in his belly again and he is not surprised to open his eyes and see the same ring—the same dirt.

    He flicks his eyes up and watches as his own image slinks forward between the pillars.

    This time, he feels nothing but grim determination—nothing but a steely readiness.

    It happens quickly; quicker than even the fight with Magnus.

    Before he can guess at what his shadow-self will do, he watches himself transform into that familiar black streak of feline muscle, the white of his other self’s teeth flashing. Atrox pulls his own lips back but his incisors are dulled, blunted, and there is a frustration at feeling so divorced from the gifts that have made him who he is for centuries. The frustration does not slow him though. Does not blind him with rage.

    More instinctual than trained—more gutsy than calculated—Atrox pulls into a half-rear, horned head lifting away, and strikes out, the ragged edge of his hooves punching forward and then slamming down on the ground. His shadow self pulls up short before the jabs, coiling and hissing. When Atrox lands again, the cat launches himself forward, swipes, and Atrox feels the claws rip his chest, the flesh splitting easily.

    He snarls in pain as blood splatters the hungry earth and whirls to keep the cat in his immediate sight as it streaks forward but he cannot move as quickly as the cat can circle him. His ears swivel on top of his head and he feels the sensation of something coming close to him. He bunches and kicks out, bucking forward as his tails snaps behind him. His hoof connects with the cat and there’s a sick satisfaction until he feels something like a mirrored pain in him, the impact nearly knocking the breath out of him.

    Atrox gasps, taking a stuttered step forward, and yelps in surprise when he feels something heavy land on his back. His shadow-self digs his claws into his shoulders, blood ribboning down his sides, and Atrox crow hops forward several times as he feels the cat reach forward again. The claws dig into new flesh and teeth joining the mix, sinking into the skin and finding purchase. Thinking as quickly as possible, Atrox does the only thing that he can imagine: he jumps forward before lifting into a near vertical rear, extending higher and higher until he feels the balance beginning to tip into another direction.

    There is no thought to his own self-preservation.

    No thought to strategy or anything other than the same instinctual brawl he’s always known.

    When he falls backward and lands, he hears a sickening crunch and feels the claws rip away from him with no little pain. His own back screams in agony but the bones themselves remain intact as he rolls over, dazed as he gets to his feet. He turns slowly, watching himself curl up on the ground—the panther body broke, battered, and bruised. He grits his teeth, feeling the same phantom pain shoot through him to wind around the very real version of it, lifting himself again and coming down hard on the cat’s skull.

    And not for the first time, and not for the last, Atrox watches himself die.

    He smiles when he feels the familiar shadow of it snake through his mind, and—

    he does not fight the darkness when it comes.

    ATROX | THE PANTHER KING
    [Image: atrox.png]

    now be defiant, the lion, give them the fight that will open their eyes

    Reply
    #9
    Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
    When the darkness comes, she does not fight it. She never does anymore. She greets it like an old friend, welcoming its comforting touch. Far too many times has she lingered in the darkness.

    She finds something more than its comfort this time. It is a part of her she has forgotten, a piece of her that almost seemed to never exist. Brave—she almost had forgotten she could be brave. For so long she has been frightened, filled with terror and nightmares.

    Fear had consumed her, wrapping its dark tendrils of terror around her tightly. It had controlled every thought and action in her—drowning her into the abyss. Her own fears had killed her, but she doesn’t feel it now as her bruises and wounds are knitted back together. She doesn’t feel its choking grip on her or the chains that made her feel like a prisoner.

    She was free!

    I am not scared anymore, she thinks with more certainty than she has ever in her life.

    Lucrezia opens her eyes, and sees the familiar mottled-red brown earth, the two pillars, and red glowing dome. Everything was the same. A small part of her began to fear that she would come face-to-face with Bruise again. Lucrezia stops herself there—she would not allow fear to control her.

    With one blink, someone appears in front of her. It was not Bruise who appeared though. She recognizes the other mare instantly. It was herself. Her greatest adversary.

    Lucrezia looks at her replica for a moment, as if she is seeing herself for the first time. She is mesmerized by the natural beauty her slime yet muscular shape curves into, the soft autumn-colored peafowl feathers that drape along her neck and flow elegantly behind her. Matching peafowl wings hang at her side as well. Although, when her eyes meet the gaze of her shade, she sees the deep anger and madness bursting—destroying the beautiful, brave, and humorous person she knows to be.

    It happens quickly then.

    Her shade rears up in front of her, sprawling wings out wide, letting out a deathly shrill, and kicking hooves at her. Lucrezia lunges towards the horn pillar to avoid the oncoming attack. Her shade’s hooves scrape against her rump and pivots to pushes her against the horn pillar. Lucrezia yelps out in pain as the antler horns pierce through her left side. Using all her strength, she breaks away from being pinned.

    Making an escape, Lucrezia quickly unfolds her wings and launches upwards. She gathers her thoughts for a moment, ignoring the pulsating pain coming from her left side; however, Lucrezia knows herself better. She looks back, already seeing the shade coming at her full speed. Her shade was relentless, but so was she!

    Lucrezia swiftly circles around, changing her direction to face her advancing shade head on. Soaring at a higher altitude, Lucrezia pivots her position, she pulls her wings close and launches herself at a fast speed towards her replica. Diving down, Lucrezia gains speed, closing the distance between them. She then pulls to the left, shielding her wounded side, and lunges forward with barred teeth.

    The two clash together. Their hooves and teeth collide, scrapping and cutting flesh. Blood and sweat stains both, dripping from open wounds and cuts. They fight without fear, relentless in their attacks.

    Her shade breaks away from underneath her. Both are splattered with blood and wounds that sting like hell fire. Lucrezia feels out of breath, but she doesn’t stop—she cannot. She closes the distance between them, lunging forward, gripping onto her shade’s crest. Lucrezia realizes they are not that far from the ground, so she pushes all her strength against her shade, using gravity as her momentum.

    Suddenly, they are falling fast. She holds her grip tight, fighting against her ruthless shade to break lose. The red earth is close signally to her. Lucrezia lets go of her grip and pushes against her replica’s body. She folds her wings out wide, the wind catches her. She watches as her body hits the ground with a loud thud.

    Her shade does not move. Lucrezia swoops down to where her replica is. She carefully examines her own broken and bruised body. For a moment she wonders if this is what she looked like when Bruise had murdered her, but she pushes that thought aside.

    She didn’t need to fear him or the darkness anymore.
    ...too close to the bottom.
    Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
    Reply
    #10
    HELLO DARKNESS, MY OLD FRIEND

    She can feel the darkness breathing life into battered bones - mending flesh and alleviating the pain. She allows herself to drift - the darkness providing comfort, pulling her into a familiar embrace.

    But soon the darkness fades.

    Again, she finds herself surrounded by the familiar, blood-soaked Plains.  The body of her son is gone and there’s no evidence of him ever having been here.  The dome around the arena still remains, and Anaxarete knows that this test is not over. Not yet.

    Before her another shape materializes.
    Her own.
    Surrounded by the shadows she so loves.

    She will fight, of course, she is far too proud to simply stand here and wait for death to claim her. The shadowmare will not go quietly, however she knows what the outcome of this battle will be. She knows that the still-magic version of herself will not hesitate to call upon her abilities because that’s exactly what she would have done given the opportunity.  Anaxarete has never been famous for her restraint, so she knew what was coming would be brutal and may not be quick.

    The shadowmare considered, for a moment, what it would be like to die. Death was something she had yet to experience.  But she had never been one to flee from the darkness and knew better than most that death meant so little in the grand scheme of things.

    Death wasn’t the end.
    Darkness was not to be feared. 
    So Anaxarete welcomed her own impending doom without fear or hesitation.

    The two leapt forward in unison - magical and non-magical alike.  This was not a battle she could win, but she was determined that before the darkness came to claim her there would be magical blood spilled across these sands. The distance narrowed - and the winged shadowmare did not flee to the skies. She knew doing so would only bring about her end all the more quickly. 

    She could see the shadows in her periphery - growing and beginning to take shape.  Xenomorphs, born of shadows, snarled as they closed in from each side. The eerie clicking of their shadow-jaws was oh so familiar to the shadowmare, but she pushed herself even more quickly.  She extended the wings - again using them to protect her now mortal body.  The shadow-creatures arrived simultaneously - teeth immediately finding flesh.  They tore the wings from her sides - nearly in unison.  Anaxarete screamed in agony as the flesh gave way, but her magical counterpart just smiled wickedly. 

    The shadowmare stumbled and staggered.  She saw the shadow creatures fade away into nothing, the vestiges of her wings falling to the earth where they had stood. Blood streamed from her shoulders, dripping onto the sunbaked, bloodstained earth.  Her magical counterpart ignited a circle of flame around them - further shrinking the battlefield.  She gritted her teeth in both a reaction to the pain and her renewed determination to draw blood before she’s no more.

    She sneers at her magical self - her whole self.  The crackle of the fire around them is deafening, but she remains undeterred.  The shadows stir around the magic mare. She misses their touch - the shadows - and knows she will be with them soon. That is enough to provide her some sense of comfort, even as the pain and adrenaline burns through her.  It was time to end this. 

    She leapt towards the shadows and the mare shrouded in them.  In response - her magical self did nothing physically but the shadows sprung from the ground and began to consume her.  Her steps slowed as the shadows stripped away flesh and blood.  She screamed as she forced herself forward, each step sheer agony.  She is close now - she can tell by the burn of the shadows.  And at the same time, she feels her life leeching away.

    There is little time.
    She lurches, ungracefully, using her last moments of life to throw herself towards...herself. Her teeth rake across the magic mare’s face and down her neck as the mortal mare falls to the earth at the other’s feet.

    She breathes once.
    Twice.

    Her gaze remains fixed on herself, watching as blood wells to the surface of the wounds that’d she’d inflicted. She watches as a single drop of blood streams down her cheek and falls to the sunbaked earth below.

    A smile crawls upon her lips.
    And then she welcomes the darkness with open arms.

    A N A X A R E T E
    image credit 
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)