eat sh*t and die } LUPEI

[Lexa]

the dead are gone, and the living are hungry.

Something shadowy leaps out of the churning bodies, snapping at her with fearsome fangs that skitter off her carbon armour. She snorts, almost amused that the creature thinks it could harm her with such pitiful weapons. But the thought is stopped in its tracks when the wolf shifts and becomes, of all things, a perfect mirror copy of her own self.

“What the fuck?!” Larken (her heart clenches) would be amused at the expletive, but there’s no time to dwell on that. The Lexa-copy circles her then lashes out, catching her on the shoulder with its hooves. Lexa steps back, pushed back by the force and grimaces slightly at the slight sting. Her carbon armour is perfect for keeping out penetrating weapons, but as of yet not as perfect for impact weapons. She’ll likely bruise, though it won’t be much.

She’s suddenly joined by a familiar starry shape, and Lexa nods grimly at her friend before turning her attentions back to the copy of herself. At any other time she would stop to marvel over this creature’s ability, at how perfectly it appears to have copied both herself and her armour. But they are at war, and there’s no time to stop and wonder, even at the fantastical.

Draconis rears and hammers at the strange beast, and while Lexa is impressed with her friend’s efforts she doubts it will have too much effect. If this copy cat has truly replicated Lexa’s ability, it will end up with little more than a bruise. Time to try and get clever. If she can even think of anything. How exactly would she defeat herself?

There’s no time to stand and think, so she moves into action, going with the first idea that pops into her head. She breaks into a run, charging at beast’s side that hasn’t already been claimed by Draconis. But it’s a distraction tactic - at the very last moment she veers away, and throws carbon spikes at odd angles up from the ground. The spikes are aimed at the replicator’s feet, and if her aim is true she’ll trip up the creature. It may not be the most spectacular of attacks, but it will at least give them time to think.

Once she’s past the replicator she wheels around to face the creature. She’s about to make another pass at the thing, when her mother’s familiar shape soars over her head, zooming off in the direction of Prague. As she watches, the wolf, still attached to Lyris’ shoulder suddenly catches fire … and her mother’s body incinerates in a massive blue comet.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Lexa’s scream carries above the battlefield. First her sister, now her mother.

Suddenly, everything is red.

lexa

Lexa attacks Kryten, sees mother die.

Lexa's seriously about to go postal. Would some kindly magician (@[Yael]? @[prague]?) like to knock her out and transport her and Larken's body back to the Jungle before she ends up hurting someone she likes?

[Nazul]

from the ashes a fire shall be woken
a light from the shadows shall spring

It was the fire that roused her.
It had been decades since Nazul had disappeared from life in Beqanna’s kingdoms, decades since she’d faded into the innermost shadows and hollows of the Jungle, melting into the last part of her life she could cling to. She’d spent years shifting from form to form, leaving behind the equine species she’d been born as to live as a creature of the Jungle. Fierce felines, swift birds, agile monkeys – she’d been them all, had lived and died and lived again in so many forms it was a struggle to even remember the one that used to be hers. 
It had simply grown too wearisome, too difficult for the immortal phoenix to continue as she had been. She’d seen sisters, queens, friends and family born and live and die around her, with nothing remaining the same, even herself. Oh, she endured, to be sure, bursting into a fiery death only to be reborn every 20 years or so like clockwork, but the years had weighed on the phoenix in a way they never had before. Too many deaths, too many betrayals lingered in the shadows of her mind for Nazul to continue caring, and so she’d disappeared and left it all behind. The Jungle was the only thing of meaning left in her life anyway.
It was the fire that had finally roused her from the uncaring stupor she’d lived in for decades. The scent of smoke, the sight of ash in the air, the heat of the flames on her skin. Typically the phoenix would have simply weathered that calamity like any other Jungle creature and then gone about her day, but this time, the faintest tendril of curiosity wormed its way to the forefront of her mind, and almost before she realized it, she was padding towards the more central areas of the Jungle to investigate. 
She was almost to the inhabited places when she realized that wandering back into the world as a ink black jaguar wasn’t perhaps the best of choices. While the sisters had long ago grown used to the felines that prowled the shadows of their kingdom, that didn’t mean they weren’t still wary of what the jungle cats could do. Nazul paused in the shadows, struggling for long moments to remember what she was supposed to be. It had been so long since she had been Nazul that the phoenix could barely remember what form was the one that was truly hers. It was black, female, and a horse – that much she knew, so for now that’s what she went with. Almost without thought her body shifted, growing and lengthening into the form of a black mare, its breed indistinguishable. Nazul glanced back at herself curiously, then as an afterthought added a black curling unicorn’s horn on her head and black feathery wings on her shoulders. They weren’t something she’d been born with, but she remembered being fond of them, the last time she’d been a horse.
Once more in her own skin (kind of), the phoenix resumed her journey. More than a few of the sisters seemed to be fleeing the borders, rage and bloodlust in their eyes, and so the phoenix followed unobtrusively, flying high enough overhead to not be seen. It took very little time for her to realize the destination – once upon a time the Chamber had been as a second home to her, and it remained close to her heart even after all these years. 
No longer needing a guide, the phoenix flew ahead to observe the battle. For that’s what she found in the mess below her – a fierce battle, full of blood and screams and more than a little magic. She didn’t insert herself into the fighting – it had been far too many years since she’d last given a damn about the politics of the kingdoms or even the sisterhood she’d once served – but instead the black phoenix simply circled around overhead, watching. Dark eyes caught sight of strangers and familiar faces alike, though so many of those below were faces from her past that she gave very little thought to their being real. Starlace, Tatter, Set – all had been gone for even longer than she had, and with very little care she simply assumed that her mind, so long accustomed to solitude, had simply supplanted their faces onto the unknown equines battling below. Still, it was fun to watch the war playing out below while she remained an uncaring observer up above them all, even if she was apparently going a little bit crazy.

Nazul

Basically....she's back, and just randomly flying around overhead watching the battle. You can interact with her if you want to, or not - up to you~

[Zayn]

Siberian offers no protest to his order, and the gold stallion and the bear-shifter make quick work of the distance to the fight. Zayn takes pause at the edge of the battle, watching and analyzing the crush of bodies below.

A shiver wracks his body as a great gust of icy wind blows through the battle ground, and Zayn’s red eyes spot a white-eyed roan stallion, barely visible through the storm. Zayn knows little of magical abilities, but if he were to be where the storm was coming from …

“Siberian, there!” He points towards the reddish stallion with a flick of his golden nose. If they are dealing with an ability of some kind Siberian will likely have the best chance of taking the stallion out. Not to mention the fact that the boy’s thick bear coat will protect him from the worst of the storm.

“Come!” he barks the command, then plunges through the raging winds, heading in the red stallion’s direction. The going is tough - strong gusts nearly make him lose his footing more than once, and at one point the very earth breaks open almost beneath him.

But finally, he makes it there.

He doesn’t expect to be very effective against the stallion - untraited as he is - but perhaps he can at least be a distraction until Siberian takes the creature out. Zayn rears, lashing out with blood stained hooves towards the stallion’s head. Hopefully they can take him out before they all freeze to death.

ZAYN

I'm an ugly mess

@[Siberian]

Zayn attacks Weir, orders Siberian to do the same.

[Siberian]

Motionless and rapidly becoming coated with white, he watches the battles unfolding from his position at Zayn's shoulder, taking it all in.  It was both unnerving and beautiful, watching the equines before them engaged in their various life and death struggles.  Siberian is content to simply watch, waiting for the command that he knows will come.  For Zayn to choose a target for them to set upon, before they both become nothing more than a pair of mismatched snow sculptures.  The older stallion doesn't leave him waiting long before he does just that, moving forward against the storm with rapid orders for the bear shifter to respond to.  He squints against the falling snow in the direction that the palomino sabino had indicated, spotting the reddish horse after a moment of focusing.  There.  That would be their target, their prey.  His lips peel back from ivory teeth briefly in response to spotting Weir, before he, too, begins moving towards the white-eyed invader.  If this stallion was indeed the cause of the snowstorm, his master could not have picked out a better opponent for the two of them; he had to be stopped, and quickly.  

With his padded paws and furry body, Siberian could easily make better progress through the storm than Zayn could, but he keeps close to the golden stallion, attempting to act as a windbreak for him as they advance towards the weathercaster.  The ground shakes open, and he grunts with surprise, waiting until it is still once again, detouring around the tear in the earth.  As they near the chestnut, Siberian stops, watching to see what Zayn will do attack-wise.  The older Chamberling charges in, swinging his hooves at Weir's face.  Believing that his master is providing a distraction, the grizzly shifter makes his own charge, being far enough back that he has the room to curve around from another direction.  He gets within striking distance of the weather manipulator, coming at him from one side rather than the same direction from where Zayn had come.  Attempting a surprise attack, Siberian lunges for the large target of the red male's barrel with open mouth and both sets of foreclaws.  The bear roars silently in his mind, exhilarating in their first actual taste of battle, what it had wanted, what *they* wanted together now.  Heart hammering in his own thick chest, Siberian hopes that at least one of his strikes will land, however with open ground to both his far side and to the rear, Weir is hardly trapped in place.

Siberian

The sexy grizzly boy of Beqanna

[Lagertha]

I am iron and I forge myself

Well. This is… a clusterfuck. To say the least.

This battle is not what she had imagined, and while Lagertha is fully aware that war is messy and violent and unpredictable, the addition of magic makes everything even more so. They all come crawling out of the woodwork to claim their piece of glory, when they couldn’t be bothered with anything leading up to it. Let the magicians have their pissing contest - there are too many impervious creatures running around for anyone to get anything done. And who is winning? Can anyone actually tell? In theory, four kingdoms versus two should have the numbers squarely on their side, but when dragons and all other sorts of unnatural shapes take to the sky, all bets are off. Enough of this. She would go straight to the source of the conflict.

A howling, biting wind roars to life and whips her long, tangled mane into a frenzy, making her ears ache and her eyes water. Fuck the cold. There’s a reason she lives in the Jungle. After attempting to simultaneously barrel into Cress and poison her, she moves on, looking for her next target. She may have singed hair at this point, if Cress has retaliated, but who knows, she’s too busy looking for the bay and white Queen of the Chamber, or some raven to call down from the sky and get her a message. While she takes a moment to scan the skies, a (large) bright white streak grabs her attention, and Lexa’s horrified scream soon follows. Lagertha couldn’t have told you where Lyris was in the fight, but she knows her women’s voices. Goddamn it. Motherfuckingbitch GODDAMN IT. She bites her tongue and chooses to hope that it isn’t what she thinks it is. The comet - the streak was only large and shapeless. So many of them have wings, any one of them could be up in the air. It’s not Lyris. Right now, she says it isn’t Lyris. So it isn’t.

Lexa, however, is another story. The iron Queen wheels around and finds the screaming girl. Draconis has somehow ended up on the ground, but she’s not the mare’s target. Lexa is. She trades in her iron armor for something far more unusual - water - and keeps it flowing, falling off her body before it has time to freeze. She has no idea whether or not her idea will work and will probably regret literally giving herself frostbite or pneumonia, but this might actually be fortuitous if she can get Lexa (and her copycat) to slip and be unable to get up. She gallops in a circle around the spotted warrior, and then turns off the water, shivering from a drenched coat. Horses’ hooves were not made for ice. It should keep the berserker down until someone else can take care of her. They were too closely confined for her to go crazy.

Lagertha doesn’t have to wait long before the shadow creatures come waltzing into their midst. She seems to forever have one eye on her surroundings, dodging and striking out when necessary, and one eye on the sky, looking for ravens. Finally, she sees one and calls out to it, telling it to find Straia and tell her that Lagertha has a proposal for her. But that’s grabbed her attention for too long, and seemingly out of nowhere (it isn’t, but when you stop moving, that’s what happens) and it touches her for a moment, before she can raise her armor again. She doesn’t falter, but all of a sudden, the day seems to catch up to her, as if her adrenaline has stopped pumping and it’s after the battle, instead of during it. The Gates to the Desert, the run to the Chamber, the fighting - all of it.

Immortality is only so useful. It’s kept the ache and pain of her numerous years at bay, but anyone would be tired by the day she’s had. God, sleep would be so nice right now - except she can’t. And she won’t. She’d rather drop dead (which might happen, because apparently Straia can kill from afar - go fucking figure) than abandon her post, than lose any more Sisters. This isn’t the war she wanted. This is chaos. Her war would have been on the Plains. It would have been far more civilized.

Luckily, her reflexes kick in and her usual iron armor sheathes her body, keeping out the Shadow’s negative influence. The poisonous spikes are useless here, but she dons them anyway, because you never know. And a light-form (literally) swoops down to tackle the Shadow and get it away from her, freeing Lagertha to stay on the lookout for the Queen. She’s just in time, because an elemental raven dives and then flaps around her head, drawing her out of the fighting and towards the edges, where Straia waits. Lagertha’s breathing hard, she’s shivering, and she’s sweating.

There’s some sort of black, flaming bird in the sky, and she doesn’t know why but it gives her a little added strength. It’s all imagined, of course. But she is confident that if she looks behind her, she’ll see that her side is winning - that they outnumber the Chamberlings and Valley dwellers (if they’ve come to their allies aid) and that both sides are starting to get casualties. She’s seen the crack of lighting that means Kratos and Rhy are around, and she’s heard the bellows of Vanquish, and though the winter storm has lessened, it is still going. Physical manifestations of light fight the dark. And then there was whatever Yael was doing before she arrived. It must have caused quite a ruckus, for the rest of the magicians to take to the skies like that.

She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “If you step down, I’ll withdraw our forces. We will vet your replacement, but the Chamber will be its own. Do we have a deal?” It’s a shot in the dark, but she knows Straia wanted war too. They got it. Now they should end it before everyone fucking dies.

Lagertha

warrior queen of the amazons

[idk where that idea came from tins, but you can go with it or not! Just trying to end this whole thing quickly now  If everyone could please wait until Straia replies, that would be great. Kyra, let me know if you want me to change anything.]

[Straia]

i am the violence in the pouring rain

i am a hurricane

Perhaps they are outnumbered, but it doesn’t matter. The Chamber is strong, and the members fight until they have nothing left to give, and the other side runs scared and uncertain. That is of course what the Chamber demands of her members, but still, Straia is proud. She doesn’t enter the melee, though keeps tabs on what’s happening, sending her ravens to aid whenever and however she can, though the majority of her focus remains on combating the magicians as best she can. Shadow ravens to fight the creatures of light that Yael creates. Metal ravens to peck and claw away at the beasts of stone that Vanquish sends into the fight. Ravens of light to dance around the heads of the magic-made beasts, distracting them from their horse prey.

So many die, though she doesn’t find it all that sad. They wanted war. Everyone knows the cost.

It is quite some time before Lagertha finally finds her. War is never really civilized, war is never really anything but madness. They could have, of course, called the Chamber to the plains. But hadn’t it been Yael and Prague to start the madness. Straia had simply told them it was time for war. She never said where. Not that the so-called good side would ever admit that so much of their was their own doing. They don’t want to admit their hands are dirty. But they are, of course. Isn’t everyone’s, if we’re really being honest?

“Do you still long for battle, Warrior Queen?” Straia asks, ignoring the question for a moment. Why? Because she can. Because it is entirely unclear what side is winning, and she knows that at this point, her enemies have so little to bargain with. She may not have all that much, but she’s always been clever about finding the upper hand. Sometimes not caring much for the result really helps in that. “What if you had asked in the beginning? Could all these deaths have been avoided?”

Perhaps. She wouldn’t have needed a war, if they had simply rolled over on their backs and admitted that the Chamber was stronger. Ah, but they never would have.  Of course, she doesn’t expect an answer to that question. It’s merely food for thought. She’ll have to leave Beqanna with something, if she’s to leave. Not that she’d expected this to end, any differently. End with a bang, yes?

“You speak for the Amazons, but what of the Deserts and the Gates?” she asks again, finally getting down to business. Two ravens appear above her, winging off into the zoo to find the respective Kings of those kingdoms. Not that she actually cares what Mast agrees to. Without the Amazons and the Deserts, he was nothing. But she’ll pretend, for appearances sake.

“Nor will I agree to let anyone have a say in the next monarch.” She’d worked far too hard to let a bunch of goody-two-shoes dictate the future of her kingdom. As a reminder, she reaches for Lagertha’s heart, aiming to do nothing more than brush against it. She has no desire to kill the Amazonian Queen, but it’s a reminder that they are bargaining for lives. And Straia doesn’t have to touch someone to rip their life out. “Besides, I’ve already designated my heir. I suspect you will find him agreeable.” She had picked him for a reason. He could lead the Chamber in a time of peace, and would know when to hand the reins over when he grew weary. Another raven appears and then flies into the melee, hunting for Killdare, asking far too much of him by bringing him into this meeting. He was tattered and torn and exhausted, she knew, but she also knew he would come.

straia

the raven queen of the chamber

@[Vanquish], @[Mast], and @[Killdare]

[Killdare]

no matter what we breed we still are made of greed

Killdare had taken to the skies, though he was no magician, still he knew his upper hand was in the air. It had been a mess of a fight really, with no concrete victor, but so much blood so much death. He had done what he could to see to the children he had stolen from their homes but they had not wanted his protection. He supposed he could not hold that against them but he was annoyed to leave their fate in their young and feeble hands, he was annoyed period when he decided they could piss off.

The air was clearer up above, smoke dissipating into the growing darkness, breaking free from the restrictions of the wood. His home had been burnt, charred and regrown within hours, and though this pained him he also made him glad. They were strong and from fire and brimstone they were reborn again, even as the trees awoke and a few grabbed at him with their lofty branches. Some tore at him, others pummeled anything they could reach below. From the air he took to those that also met the sky with clutching wings, meeting them to grapple on high like some say true dragons would do. He did what any mortal could do to aide the magicians and when he could not he observed their own soldiers below, watching them in what might be the greatest battle of their lives. Some already shorter than most, much shorter than he thought they deserved.

Soon the air is ice and sleet, it is frigid and numbing asking him to push his limbs to their limits. He can hardly stay aloft as he looks for the source of the storm, only finding it as Set rains brick sized rocks from nothing to those ground-bound. The roan stallion with lamp-like eyes turns his head slowly to the onslaught of beasts, Zayn and Siberian both joining in the assault. Killdare can’t tell over what the male hovers or who, otherwise he might feel sorry for the man. For now he only grits his teeth as the weather wielder bends the earth beneath them, breaking the frozen landscape into black chasms. Around him the ground spits dagger like stalagmites of ice, rocketing upwards from below to pierce whatever might find itself in their dangerous path. An unfortunate horse finds itself skewered by the barb, rushing up into Killdare’s path.. poor bastard he thinks as he dodges.

Lastly the roan rushes up on a tower of ice, maneuvering himself to avoid the attack of tooth and claw. Unfortunately for him, Killdare greets him in the air, knocking the iceman from his throne and sending him in a spiral below. He falls to the ground sprawled, likely not a amiss a broken bone or two, but clearly knocked out. The howling wind and shaking ground ceasing as his eyes close.

Killdare doesn’t stop to check on the others, he simply soars over the group of Chamberlings twisting back up into the air. He is called, he is needed. He doesn’t disobey an order, landing mostly whole next to the Raven Queen, a few bruises, cuts but he wasn’t too worse for the wear. The healers had done good work, accompanied by the skill of their magicians,though he was very tired and used he did not bend or rest his stance now.

"Straia", he gruffs before looking to their company, "Lagertha." He eyes her carefully and waits.

KILLDARE

this is my kingdom come

The Dragon Lord & Colonel of the Chamber

sooo two birds one stone- Killdare assists in knocking Weir out and then joins Straia and Lag.

Weir is no longer in this fight and it is still icy and chilly but the blizzard had been ended. thank

[Vanquish]

we were caught up and lost in all of our vices
in your pose as the dust settled around us

Even though there was fire at his back and the skies bled magician’s blood over their heads, Vanquish heeds none of it as he continues to trample down onto the tiger that had taken a child’s life – that is if he is still there, or still breathing. An elephant’s roar ripped through his ears as it shoulders through the pines around them, headed with tusks lowered for some enemy he didn’t turn to look for. A swell of strength fattened his veins as he catches the gaze of a chestnut mare whose eyes were locked on him and he gives her a slight nod – filing her face away in his memory for gratitude given on another day.

Bother had sealed his bleeding, thorn-covered sides and salved his burns. But she had not relit his stamina nor refilled his adrenaline the way Prague did now as her voice floats into his head. He doubts she is listening, reaching with her powers for his response at that moment but he calls to her anyway, “is Yael okay?!” He hadn’t seen his Golden Rose since her shadow left the sands to reign fire and scorn upon the Chamber. Another decade, another war.

The Nightwalker thinks himself war-drunk as Ianto lands at his side but when he calls out to him, the black king can’t help a knight’s smile spreading wide on his face. The old Tundra king had been a good friend to the titan for as many years as it had been since he had last laid eyes upon him. “A good day for battle, is it not?” He says, joking amongst the crumbling of lives and coming of death around them.

There is a great rupture in the sky and the pines sway in vigil of their blood-bringing, this was not war – this was bedlam and bloodlust in its purest forms. Apparently, this anarchy is enough to entice a myriad of slumbering magicians and royalty who’s crowns had been passed on ten-fold over to breathe again just to join in.

Warship fades and Lyris is taken before a great blizzard comes to make his joints ache and hooves a bit heavier, the Valley king takes to the sky and he scowls, coward! Creatures of shadow slither across the ice and one wraps its intangible claws around his haunch, burning Set’s magic into his skin. He fills his large lungs with burning, smoky air before he encases himself in a thick layer of sand – holding it against his skin as long as he can before it crumbles to the ground and the shadow creature had moved on. Although his haunch is tattered and bleeding that is of no concern as his golden dragon moves above the clashing mortals below her. Relief more restorative than any healing calmed the blood in his veins as he lays upon Yael as she sends her own creatures – blindingly bright to grapple with the dark that plagued those that actually fucking bothered to join the fight.

Any reprieve that had come with Yael’s arrival was swiftly wrenched from him and replaced with an all-encompassing, roaring anger at her disclosure. Nyxia, only a child, but not just a child - his granddaughter, was dead at the hand of the Valley. A hungering hatred purged any benevolence that would have ever crossed the Nightwalker and despite the sorrow welling in his heart he laughs. And he laughs because it was at this moment that he decides that Demian would answer to his (or his kingdom’s) crimes on the Plains.
A raven comes and although he listens to what the shrieking says he reaches out with gnashing teeth at it, biting nothing but air as he bellows his discontent. Turning back, he sends two bedrock golems to Feyre and Ianto’s sides before he moves for the assembling in the forest.

When he reaches them, Lagertha and Straia are accompanied by a stallion he saw in the fray. The Percheron’s ears are pinned and his wings tucked tightly against his sides, he strides to Lagertha’s side – his eyes traveling between the two Chamberlings and a sneer smothered his face in obvious disgust. “A little fucking late for a talk, don’t you think?” He thunders at Straia, his head held high as he locks his gaze on Killdare – an invitation. He can’t help the growl that rumbles in his throat, his anger was well over boiling point now – his thoughts smothered in ways to make Demian suffer. “What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, jaws snapping in fury, “but since you’ve summoned me here, use one of those ravens to tell Demian to ready himself to meet me on the Plains.” Vanquish would have his reckoning.

This hadn’t even been their fight, the Deserts’ nor the Jungle’s, but it was they that had fought and lost the most. Mast hadn’t even troubled himself to bring his ass to the fight, “and have one go find Mast and tell him as long as he sits upon that throne the Deserts are no ally to the Gates.” Rage slithered over his body in a sheen of hot sweat and his skin prickled with cactus thorn as he grew angrier at the thought. They had willingly thrown themselves into war to uphold their alliances but they were no strong-arm for a weak will to use and stand-by idle to watch with nary a scratch and only a story to tell. “Now, once again, what the fuck do you want?”

VANQUISH

dragon king of the deserts

picture © s-uperflu0us


@[demian]
@[Straia]
@[Lagertha]
@[Mast]
@[Yael]
@[Bother]
@[Killdare]
@[Feyre]
@[Ianto]

[Tarnished]

We are the children of fire, we are the lions

(You cannot escape death, I would know.)

He collapses when he finds her, sobbing—it wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wasn’t supposed to be gone that long. He’d only left to find Rome. He was only trying to find Rome. But Kreios had Rome, somewhere, and he knew he was safe—the scent trail didn’t lie, wherever the boy was, he was with his father and he was safe; Nyxia was not. Nyxia had come looking for her father and he wasn’t here. Tarnished had failed her when he had promised her so many times that he wouldn’t. He curls around her broken body and cradles it against him with one great wing. Paying no mind to the damage, he presses his lips to her forehead and runs a clawed hand through her wet red mane.

And then it hits.

It surges through his veins like a tidal wave of hate—it sweeps through him, crushing everything in his path until only one thing remains clear. He wants them all dead. They, who wage war for nothing; their great pissing match had cost him the life of the daughter he had raised and for that he would try to take all of theirs. He doesn’t blame Straia, this doesn’t smell like Straia—but the war is going on in her happy home, the fires burn at her door and they draw him in like a moth to the flame.

Whomever had done this would pay dearly.

(I have tried, I have tried so many times.)

The mountains shudder, the ground begins to open up beneath their feet--as if from the depths of hell itself, the great scaly beast pulls himself up from the dark with his tentacles and spreads his great tattered wings, casting his shadow across the whole of the kingdom. A growl akin to thunder rumbles out of his throat and he looks down upon them all, sneering. The Dark God had told him, once, that he was a creature meant to be feared—not loved. Tarnished had disagreed, then begged like a child to be let go. He was good, deep down—he was a good boy. He had screamed it at the top of his lungs, screamed until his vocal cords bled and blood gurgled up out of his mouth; Carnage took him apart, then, to show him--to prove a point.

He was a monster.

And so the Dark God, after making him see, had spat him back out.

Something else, something different.

A creature meant to be feared.

“Beqanna wanted war!” Tarnished bellows, his thick gray tentacles curling and uncurling all around him. Hundreds of feet long, they twitch and flick in anticipation—he expects the magicians to attack, wants them to. All of them. He doesn’t care whose side they’re on, nor which side of the moral spectrum they happen to fall on. He spreads his arms wide, as if to embrace them, and then: “Well here I am, here I am...!” He trails off, chuckling. The wind whistles past him and he notices the ice below—fire and lightning, wind and rain, utter chaos. He expects nothing less of Gods charging into battle and they, in turn, should expect nothing less from a being only a head below them. Without warning, the creature gives a mighty flap of his wings and lunges forwards—intending to bring his fists down like hammers on the nearest horse.

tarnished

( vanquish x nocturnal )

TD;LR: Tarnished found Nyxia murdered, lost his shit, remembered what Carnage told him (sort of), went Cthulhu-like and kind of looks like this. And he's basically flying through the air tryna smash. Heyo.

[Kingpin]

He's late but not really. Kingpin has been in the Valley since the war started, wreaking havoc on the unfortunate souls of the Gates that followed blindly to the wolves. He’s enjoyed himself, can’t say he hasn’t, the soiled silvered coat is enough to vouch for that. Their bodies proved as gentle and soft as their souls, bending almost too easily, too quickly to his will. They broke, beneath him, around him, they broke though they were broken long before they came here.

Kingpin doesn’t mind being blood stained, it brings out his eyes, don’t you think?

For a moment he stares hard into the ever changing landscape of the Chamber, first fire, then earth, then ice. The world around him is at odds, it is chaos and destruction, it is beautiful. He stares forever long, as though he is trying to pierce the very borders with his bloody eyes. It’s wishful thinking for the untraited stallion, though he is stocky and muscled he is unremarkable, he is without aid in this fight but that doesn’t stop him. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t the most intelligent of beasts, maybe it was inherited, both of his parents were sorely mad after all.

When looks do not kill, Kingpin enters the Chamber, hell bent on attacking the biggest and newest thing to catch his gaze. A giant, walking octopus, or it was sort of an octopus- the bottom half was anyway. The silvered boy knew nothing of kraken’s so he could only chalk the creature up to what he knew, and to him this was an overgrown cephalopod. Clearly he is outmatched, out-magicked, clearly he does not think this charge through. For really, what could a little horse do to a towering monstrosity big enough to easily defeat a herd of him?

The nearest tentacle receives a mighty headbutt (he would like to think), though Kingpin does not account for the way the pliable surface gives, his head sinking in several inches throwing him off balance. Had the thing even felt that? Did it hurt? Well if anything maybe he had grabbed it’s attention and he would have a real fight on his hands.

K I N G P I N

kill them all

Hai nish - feel free to disease this poor bastard or what have you- outcome should be death