03-18-2016, 07:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-19-2016, 10:47 AM by Killdare.)
± when you feel my heat, look into my eyes ±
He hauls his rested body to the Meadow, no longer plagued by the consumption of fire, at least for now. When Killdare awoke the next morning, sore but whole, he was again just a stallion. His earthy bay coat remained dull as ever, coarse black tendrils coiling around his hind. For a moment it was a dream, until his mind cleared enough to register the heat within. Without much thought to the matter, his legs bubbled, burning once again as the lava and he became one. This time it did not pain him, this time he did not think he would die.
It was hours before it went away, when he finally pushed it back inside, brow beaded with sweat from the concentration. It was harder than it looked, controlling this power, but he'd be damned if he was tamed so easily by it. Killdare was not one to easily give up, he was perhaps bull headed when it came to such matters, though in his family that wasn't so unheard of.
He would best the trait, the trait would not best him.
When he had finally subdued the moving liquid, tucked it away, that is when he was on the move. That is when he stalked to the Meadow, glassy-green eyes alert for anything. The Kingdom he was handed was broken, shattered, it was a mess. He was left to pick up the pieces or suffer because he could not. When he had counted them that night, he was surprised at how few, too few, remained. The greatest claim of the War was his mentor, his comrade in arms, Warship.
How or why he would never know, suppose we always think our heroes invincible? The Chamber King was no exception, still a boy in many ways, still growing.
When he sees her he offers a gruff "Hello" perhaps a little too deep and forced, maybe he should work on his diplomacy skills after all. He was too tired to fake it, to make smiles and jokes, to flatter. He could not muster charm now, fresh from battle and loss and gain. Wounds never do heal that quickly do they?
KILLDARE magma King of the Chamber 
"we pull apart the darkness while we can" She can remember the sound her spine made when it ruptured somewhere above her withers, the white hot intensity of too much pressure, so much pain, a knife wedged between the vertebrae. There had been a hollow pop, and then everything faded. It was like a cord of stunted electricity stretched throughout her body, a quivering thread pulled so tight and she could feel it thrumming deep inside. But when she tried to move, to struggle back to her feet, when he prowled closer to taste the wounds on her flesh with such pleasure glowing in his eyes, she felt nothing. Nothing, until with hoof and horn he caved in her beautiful face, turned her upturned eye to jelly in her skull. That she had felt, each wound so intimately made until at last the dark came to claim her and she submitted willingly.
When she woke again it was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but her strange, treacherous body had already begun the process of regeneration. Her eye was a solid thing again, and the crushed bones beneath that aching indigo color stretched across her delicate face were knitting back together slowly. It was time in rewind as all those broken, ruined pieces found ways to pull back together and heal themselves, as her severed spine reattached and she was greeted by a tidal wave of pain from the wounds that still wept red tears. It was longer still before she could stand again, so she remained stranded beside the carcass she had fallen over after pulling away from Pollock who had taken everything, everything, from her. The scent of dead and rot and a death she had longed for remained in her nose long after she had finally stood and disappeared into the shadow of the meadow with dried blood like tears spilling across the blue of her skin.
It was strange that she had chosen to remain in the meadow, but once it became clear that his child grew in her belly, there was nowhere else she would rather be but alone and isolated. Her family would have questions she did not know how to answer, and if she tried she knew there would be pity waiting for her in their eyes and she would drown in it. So she hid as all wretched things should, until someone new came to her meadow and he smelt of smoke and burnt things and she found herself remembering things she always wished she would forget. Things that she had hoped would fade as all dream-things do, even though this dream had been as real as anything else in her world. She drifts closer because she cannot help herself, but her head is lowered so that the horns drop towards him sinisterly.
It isn’t until after he has said hello, a greeting she had chosen to ignore, that she catches the scent of the Chamber on his skin, hidden beneath the odor of burnt and smoke. She softens immediately, if only slightly, and when she lifts her face to look at him more closely, those glittering obsidian horns return to proud points pressed towards the sky. “You smell like home.” She tells him eventually, reluctantly, even as she resents him for it. Malis understands how the world works, how everything comes to a circle. She knows without knowing what this will mean for her. Her eyes flicker to his and she is surprised to find that his are cut from the same stones as hers, an aching green like cold emeralds buried in the earth. Her voice is quieter now, her face tight and refined from the tension that seeps from the shadow etched against indigo. “I ran away from that home.”
MALIS makai x oksana
just remember we're pretending this was in a tangly timeline where killdare is kingdare and malis is super pregnant. <3
± when you feel my heat, look into my eyes ±
He’s not the best at greetings, idle chatter and how-do’s had always plagued him as tedious. Empty conversation and exchanging of words that were for the most part unnecessary or soon forgotten. He had taken to interpreting greetings as someone wanting something, maybe he wanted something now. Surely he did, his Kingdom ravaged by war and in need of new life, new beginnings. Maybe his intentions were the very same things he so loathed, now the tables were just reversed and he was the one left in need. One thing he would not be was the beggar King but if others were generally interested in serving the Chamber- their door was open. Still he had his duty and duty called for trips to the meadows, the fields, the forests, all their common lands in search of those that might need a place to stay. It was his task to let them know he had such a place for them if they wanted it, some he wanted to have that desire more than others.
Her head hangs in the dirt, a body of indigo sky coming into view as he progresses ever closer. Horns line her otherwise feminine face but he does not fear the sharpness of her spikes. She looks beaten, broken, cast off into the dirt and left to suffer her fate. The richness of her color is marred by cuts, scabbing, her scent is death and he cannot help the cloud of black that leaves his nostrils as he snorts. It was an out of place smell on a woman clearly living, the uncertainty of her condition only causes him to pull forward, disregarding any want she has for space. Perhaps that is a mistake on his part.
The next thing he notices is the stench to flood him is one he knows, one that angers him and pulls the inferno from within. Boiling heat floods his body, a skin of moving liquid and eyes to speak of hell and brimstone. Her body had reeked of it when he had found her demolished and physically unrecognizable to the world. He remembered the cries of Dacia as she ran to find him, the own push of his wings and the aching in his chest as he tried to reach her. It was too late, all that blood. Bits and pieces of the once mantis colored mare scattered without care and defiled. It was distinctly goat, particularly male and he had stayed far longer than he needed too just to take it all in.
Here it was in his face, bickering his failures to him and unsettling his stomach. Maybe she had managed to get away, maybe he was just in time. Either way he was here now and with widened eyes he scanned their surroundings, her words falling on his ears like a car horn at midnight. He stiffens, softens and blinks away the fires that reflect deep from within him. The once burning glare replaced with the gentleness of green sea-glass, smooth and softened by the ocean’s kiss. “You smell like him.” The words deep and grating, angry even though he means her no ill will. “Are you hurt badly?” He asks, concern growing in his taut face as he looks her over wondering how she had managed to flee the animal. “Maybe home is where you should be.” Of course she should, the Chamber tended her own.
KILLDARE magma King of the Chamber
idk that im in love with this but this is what came out and it is what you shall have xD
"we pull apart the darkness while we can" It isn’t until she notices the flare of his nostrils, the quiet distaste etching itself across his dark face, that she remembers herself. The gumminess of pink and red scars like cobwebbing across the indigo of her refined face, the stink of death that clings to her skin in the same way smoke clings to his. It is hers and it isn’t, hers and the decaying mare she had fallen beside. She remembers how Pollock had seemed to love the smell, how she had stumbled across him basking in the wretchedness of it. She should have left then, left as soon as that eager wet sneer had twisted itself like a snake across the hard slash of his mouth. But Malis was a stubborn, reckless creature. It was hard to be cautious when immortal life had few lasting consequences.
Killdare exhales and smoke fills the space between them. She tries not to choke on it. There must be something that coaxes him closer, some mortal curiosity she does not understand and it is a reflex, albeit a new one, when she lowers her face so that those glittering obsidian horns reach hungrily for the soft skin at his throat. She is startled by how sick this closeness makes her feel, how easily the memory comes of Pollock touching her neck, her flank, the weight of him against her back when he defiled her. She shrugs back away from Killdare, just one step and then another, just enough so that her heart might not be crushed within the tightening of her chest.
Then suddenly, he is heat. He is fire and brimstone, rock and ash and magma and she can feel her ears pinning themselves back in the tangles of a blue and dark mane as she tries not to gag on the heat that radiates from him. Even as she tries to suppress, to push it back, she can feel a memory unfolding like a flower in her chest and she thinks she might break from it. She remembers a terrible dream that wasn’t a dream at all. She remembers and boy and his heat, his fire as she begged him to burn the wretched blue from her skin. She remembers why she left the Chamber in the first place and the walls that erect around her heart are perfect and impervious and when those emerald eyes flit back to Killdare’s face they are as cold as stones.
You smell like him. He says and for a moment, still tangled in the dangerous web of memories better off forgotten, she thinks he means her chamber prince. She thinks he means Erebor.
But then he asks if she is hurt and she remembers the wounds on her face, mostly healed but still sticky and pink and puckered with raw flesh. She remembers the cloying odor of death on her skin, the goat-stink of Pollock, and when her eyes return to Killdare’s face they are quiet and softer, lacking all of the edge from a few seconds earlier. But it is only when concern leaks like shadow across his dark face that she decides she doesn’t mind this closeness as much anymore. She doesn’t think he’ll hurt her.
She is quiet for a moment, her jaw clenching and unclenching as she works out an answer that might sate his concern. But the only thing she has for him is a puzzle and her eyes narrow on his face as she tries to decide whether he can handle it or not. In the end she doesn’t think he will, but he doesn’t have to, and as it were Malis still didn’t understand. So when she answers him it is with total, unabashed honesty- though it is wrapped in the barbs of her guarded heart. “I died, I think.” She tells him, and the sound of her spine cracking echoes in her ears. “That hurt quite a bit.” And she remembers how it felt when he caved her delicate blue face in. An echo of pain ripples through her, a healing memory, and she flinches as if struck.
She is quiet again and her eyes drift hauntedly from his face. “Home.” She repeats, tastes the bitterness of the word on her tongue as, still, she does not look at him. “Tell me about home. What is the Chamber like, now?”
Do you really think you can build anything from such a broken piece as me, she thinks but does not say as her eyes slip guardedly back to his face.
MALIS makai x oksana
you gave me muse so i give you word vomit. woops.
± when you feel my heat, look into my eyes ±
The uncertainties in life begin to grow numbing after a while. Numbness that grows hardness in your mind and heart and a certain lack of care when you let it. Here it was though and always should be, expect the unexpected. Never did he think to find such a bruised, disheveled creature in the Meadow, certainly not one so swollen with child. Her sides protruded taught against the night sky of her hair, stretching to a limit that even he was impressed with.That made him even angrier come to think of it, the carelessness that had been taken with the clearly pregnant mare. No way you could miss that one, she was nearing full term if she was not there already. Not once in all his years had he ever fathomed a thought of hurting a woman with child, though he was certainly capable of such a heinous act, sure- once.
As it is that is not really here or there, no, that is past and past should stay buried. Most of it should anyways, at least all that occurred before Beqanna. Those were dark times, only as he grew did he take notice of the atrocious ways in which his father ran things. Even now though he can’t say he disagrees with all of them, he’s not certain he ever will. Maybe that is why he is still considered a dark thing and his home is labeled with that of evil when he knew for certain that he held plenty of light and dark within him. He, like many others, was capable of great evils but he was also just as capable of great good. It’s those mind numbing uncertainties that get in the way of which dose of morals one should have, you never knew what life would throw at you, nor how you would react against the cards dealt.
What he is certain of is his worry for the woman, of his anger at the defiler and murderer’s scent that still permeates her. He knows he does not wish to leave her here, not at the mercy of such wretched creatures when he had a realm in which to keep her from such harm. She belonged home if his world was hers and the way she perked at his own scent left him no choice but to believe it was the very same.
With her words comes the gentle patter of rain, droplets of moisture dancing in light specks across his sooty skin, leaving trails to burn up in sizzling, puffs of steam where they fall. He almost does not know how to process the thought that follows her response, she had died...she thinks? How does one think they might have died? She looked quite alive now, albeit banged up a bit, but she certainly was not dead even if she reeked of it. The comment of pain pulls him from the twisted path his mind had taken, trying to decipher what exactly she had meant and if she had really even meant that at all. Maybe it had just felt like dying.
“What do you mean, think you died? That can’t be right can it, or- do you have magic then or something?” The longer he thought on it the more he began to consider that maybe the woman was some sort of magician. They had surely let their powers run rampant and wild and it would be no surprise to him if they could even bring themselves back from the gates of Hell if they wanted to. Part of him hoped they couldn’t, some things were better off left dead, especially magicians but he dare not think it too loud less one might hear him.
She asks him of home and he watches carefully her expression, her tense stance had melted away and it appeared she was generally interested or hopeful. “Home is...changing, but it is much the same. The trees still forever smell of pine, the shadows still linger but it is quieter now, much quieter.” And it was, the desertion of Straia’s ravens had left the Chamber deathly silent, all save for the bickering amongst his Kingdom mates but that he could not help. “I’m trying to make it better, different even, give it a purpose aside from destruction. I’m Killdare by the way. What do they call you?” He realizes then he doesn't even know her name, she was still simply a stranger and here he was, some dark knight in lightless armor to the rescue.
KILLDARE magma King of the Chamber
meh D: im sorry i can not accomplish the beauty you give to me ;-;
"we pull apart the darkness while we can" She can feel his eyes where they settle on the swollenness of her large, pregnant belly. It makes her a little uncomfortable at first and so she shifts from foot to foot, her eyes wide and luminous and bright with wariness where they dance across his dark face. For a moment she thinks she would like to know his thoughts, would like to see what puzzle pieces her was putting together of a pregnant mare with jagged, gruesome wounds, smelling of a goat-beast he seemed to know somehow. Whatever it was she was certain he would be wrong. How would he ever guess that some of these wounds were months and months old, that Pollock had split her open so wide even now she struggled to finish healing. It had been faster before, faster before he had raped her and filled her belly with child. But her ability seemed stretched thin between the two bodies it looked after. Cuts and scrapes repaired almost immediately, surface wounds were nothing. But the bleeding valleys he had carved out of the topography of her flesh were something entirely else.
As the rain begins to fall around them, the fat droplets sizzling where they turned to steam against the heat of his roiling body, she can see him trying to process her words. There is a smile that slips across her lips then, and though it is without humor, she laughs. He must think her a madwoman, and perhaps now she is. But she slips quietly closer to him, pausing once she is close enough to feel the heat coming in waves off of his red and dark stone-flesh. He smells strange and acrid but she holds her mouth so close to his neck until her skin is pink and protesting against the uncomfortable heat. Only then just she pull back- but just a single step. For now though she ignores his confusion, abandoning it instead for the way her heart throbs in her chest when he mentions home.
“The last time I saw her, everything had burned. The trees didn’t smell like pine. They reeked of rot and death and ash.” She is thoughtful in her reminiscence, though there is one memory she has barred off completely and when her mind starts to slip that way she stiffens and returns to Killdare abruptly. Her face softens when she catches his eyes. There is something earnest in him, something buried beneath too much weight and baggage and responsibility. But she thinks she can see it there anyway and it settles her like little else has been able to. “And what makes you think the Chamber will let you change her to something aside from the dark? She who demands a blood debt from my father, she who demanded the heart of my grandfather? The heart that still beats beneath the dirt below her citizen’s feet.” Her eyes glitter up at him fiercely but she smiles, a thin, sad slash against the blue and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must think yourself very special.” She says and there is nothing cruel about the way she says it because against all logic, she believes it too. This one is different.
But then she remembers his earlier confusion and her emerald eyes slip from where they had been holding his matching gaze.
“I mean, I think I died.” She says again, and that strange smile spun from sickness and sadness slips from the blue of her delicate mouth. “Whatever I am now is not what I was.” She says firmly, her eyes as bright and heavy as emeralds sunk into the black band of fur around her brow. “I am not magic, and neither is this. But whatever it is, it is wrong like magic.” Her jaw stiffens and she turns from him abruptly to peer out into the rain until she has reined in the roiling emotions churning tumultuous over her face. When she turns back to look at him she is like stone and steel, her gaze sharp where it carves truths from him. “I don’t control it, it controls me.” She slips closer again until her nose is mere inches from his smoldering nose, and there is challenge gleaming in her strange, broken face. “It’s easier just to show you,” a pause and she doesn’t pull away from the heat that builds in the empty space between them, “touch me, Killdare. Let me show you what I am.”
MALIS makai x oksana
stop you give me so much muse <3
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