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    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


    [open]  go to hell for heaven's sake; any, dark kingdoms
    #1
    He finds himself wondering more of late.

    The calling of the hunger leads him away from the forest grounds he has called home for the last several years. There is something more than the hunger for flesh and bone that pulls him this time though. Something of the darker forces of natures that do. There was a change in the world, and somehow by instinct he felt it.

    It pulls him towards the field, a common ground he had once ventured onto but saw himself never to returned here. Well, that is until now.

    Sinner is found in his familiar hound form. He is a wild beast on the loose, and likely many will stay away from him with the way he looks. The hound is ready to take a bite out of anything, truly. The hunger fills him—a void he can never fill.

    But those, the harbors of darkness and destruction, will not fear him. He is a slave to those that want more than anything to create chaos and discord. He was formed in the depths of hell to only serve, and serve he will always do to those that abide to evil.

    So, he waits at the center of the field.
    character info: here | character reference: here
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    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #2
    Arthas
    Another day looking for gains, Arthas was out in the field most commonly known for nomads and those looking for a home. Today was no different, the autumn breeze stroked his cheek as the days grew colder, winter was upon them and this was the most popular time to recruit stragglers.

    The dapple finds himself  nearing the heart of the meadow, something catches his eye. It was far off in the distance but it was larger than a bunny, a pony perhaps? He lingers closer and his thoughts were true, it was no bunny, but it also wasn't a pony. What the fuck is that? He thought to himself staring at the dog, it looked like a wolf but larger more fucked up.

    None the less this was no place for a canine, he would simply have to take care of it himself. The dapple stallion pins his ears to his dome and charges full force towards the black dog. He passes the canine and kicks out his rear leg although the canine was quickly and swiftly avoided his blow. He turns back to gaze, the dog was not afraid, nor did it attempt to run.

    Arthas stands and stares as does the canine, could this.... he wonders to himself. He knows equines having shifting abilities, but would they be able to shift into this demon? A smirk grows on his face, what a wonderful assest to have for the kingdom. Show your true form he snaps, either this canine would talk back or it was truly amongst the bravest of wolves.

    A Product Of Your Despair


    OOC: mmm yea lol let me know if you want me to change anything!
     
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    #3
    god make me pay
    like the devil i am
    There is no shadow here, and the stallion’s uncomfortableness with the open field is apparent in the way he holds himself - taut muscles beneath his skin, dark eyes roving madly. His lake calls to him, the darkness of the damp cave wails for his return. But the urge forces him out of the shadow of Sylva’s terrible trees, and into the open. He needed to feel the control, he needed to finish what he has started, to be the bringer of death. He needed a victim - and there are no victims in Sylva, not yet anyway - so he came to where he could find one. Perhaps a pretty little thing with clouds in her head, or maybe a stallion with a bit of fight in him to give him a real challenge. 

    The hunger drives him, the murder brings him truly alive.

    His dark eyes sweep the meadow’s tall grasses, turned gold in the autumn’s chill. His breath leaves his mouth in a vapor as he pants, scouring the field for what could placate him. Maugrim’s eyes rest solidly on the dark figure before him, unable to look away once his pupils found it. There is another there - a stallion - but that is not what draws the Riverlord's interest. He snorts sharply, a certain feeling brewing in his chest that he cannot place, nor was expecting. 

    The dark creature before him was no victim, no plaything. 

    It is a predator - whatever it is - and so is he.

    He can hear his dark and twisted soul call out, brother.

    Maugrim’s ears flick backwards into his two-toned mane, quickly stepping towards the hound with no hesitation. There is something that draws him forwards, something that is innate and instinctual and that he would not ignore. He comes to halt squarely before it, his chin to his chest as his dark eyes roll in their sockets, dry lips met with the dampness of his pale tongue as he wets them hungrily. His nostrils quiver in anticipation, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. 

    The other man - a large, dappled stallion - speaks to it, commands it. Maugrim's eyes do not waver from the hound, but a single ear tips in the other's direction. He is curious too, about its true form, but he is sure that the creature before them is its true form. He says nothing yet, pawing at the ground beneath him with a single forehoof. He is content to stare into the depths of the eyes of the hound, to feel the blackness and darkness that thrives there, to feed off its terrifying energy. It awakens him (and heightens his need for blood all the more).

    “The darkness in you calls to the darkness in me. I am Maugrim,” the finisher growls a the hound after what seems like ages of silent staring, his dark eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow. “You know where you belong,” Maugrim adds with a sinister stare, lips rippling into a twitch of a snarl. 
    m a u g r i m.


    @[Sinner]
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    #4
    The mere presence of his appearance has often brought fright and chaos easily with those of the weaker heart. He has found thrill in such occasions, often stirring up his own discord since he had first come into this world. There was something thrilling about making another one fearful.

    Nevertheless, these were just games to him. The hound certainly was a not a force to be reckon with when it came to a personal business. He was not one to hold back when following the orders of those he calls at the time or when provoked.

    It is easy to mind his own busy while causally and lazily minding his own business in the field. He is careful to keep his gaze amongst the stirrings of the environment around him. The hound’s red and glowing eyes do not miss a thing—he watches as those who keep their distance, and by distance it is very far. But then there are those that are braver, or at least think they are, and play at the game of death without knowing the consequences.

    The dapple stallion is one of those.

    He can hear the shifting of the ground beneath him, the thundering of hooves against soft-padded grass. It stirs him from his indolent stance, ears twitching in the direction that the stallion comes from. His eyes narrow, and a snarl erupts from his throat in warning before the stallion gets too close enough.

    The warning is ignored though, and he organizes himself for the defense against the stallion’s move. It was obvious there was to be a fight. Sinner welcomed the challenge with open-wide arms. He was always up for a challenge.

    He has seen battles and fights amongst others. This certainly was no different to quickly analyze and predict the obvious move of an attack on him. He moves with a swiftness that time and experience since birth have given him to be so agile in his movements. The quickness of his actions leaves him untouched by the stallion.

    Sinner quickly turns onto the dappled stallion. Instinct is quick to give in as he sounds another growl—a warning to leave or be eaten alive. He surely would not mind a snack right now. However, the stallion risks such warnings again. What a fool, he thinks. He hears the demands from the stallion and lets out a soft, bark-like laugh. It is not so easy to command the hound without contract—there are always benefits to swipe in before giving his full loyalty to anyone.

    But before he speaks, it seems their activity has yet drawn another. He overlooks the other stallion, something dark and evil stirred beneath the surface of him. Sinner could easily read another one that was formed, shaped, and lived a life of destruction. Perhaps it the way he was created to know such things, or perhaps a kinship and instinct that made him know such things.

    “It seems I have gathered an audience,” he says with a callous tone. A smirk is quick to grow across his jaw, showing white teeth that are sharp. It is a wolfish-smirk that always touches his ever darken maw when he is around another.

    He turns to look at the dappled stallion, eyes glowing with hunger and pride. “I was just beginning to enjoy our little brawl,” he laughs softly, “I suppose though you did not plan on becoming my next meal.” He licks his lips, imaging what the stallion might taste like. “But, it seems you have found me in my true form. I was created like this, but shaped and able to shift into what you are now.”

    He turns to the newer stranger that joined the group, a green tobiano. Sinner lets his gaze linger on the other for a moment before speaking. He watches as the other stares at him, searching into the depths of his eyes for something. For a moment he wonders what he finds. If he sees anything, which much isn’t always given easily to others, but he may find only darkness, pride, and hunger. The beast is a simple thing to please, but he does most of the pleasing.

    The green tobiano then speaks. He announces their kinship, his name, and where he belongs. The command is simple; one he might have easily followed by the way he carried himself—he saw potential in him to lead him to the top of the food chain, but there was more than one opinion here this time.

    “An offer that sounds grand,” he licks his lips again, thoughtfully. “It seems perhaps I might have more than one option though.” Sinner turns his attention to the other dappled stallion. “You must have something to offer why else would you come all this way?” He prods at the dappled-king, unaware of the current politics that played their game of thrones at the moment.
    character info: here | character reference: here

    @[Arthas] @[Maugrim]
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    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #5
    Arthas
    His attempted attack did not go unnoticed, the beast growls at him, he warns Arthas but he ignored the warnings. It was just one beast after all, he has never feared a single wolf, it is when the pack arrives that you need to grow wary. Though his attack was avoided and the beast prepares to attack Arthas, but the beasts attention was grabbed by another.

    Arthas too was able to sense another, it was a green and white stallion. The beast laughs, noting he has gathered an audience. It is hard to not the way you look he thinks to himself. The beast laughs that he was enjoying the battle they had begun. Arthas can not help but feel relieved that they did not truly end up having to battle, though he would have given all his effort he was no match for this demon. The tobiano fearlessly approached the pair, although he seemed a little less cautious than Arthas originally was.

    Arthas' attention flicks from the new stag back to the beast who notes Arthas caught him in his true form and that it was not a horse shifting into a beast form. But a beast shifting into an equine Arthas can not help but be amazed that this was his true form, but it only grows his desire to have him on his side.

    His attention flicks back to the paint as he notes on about the darkness and how the beast was meant to be with him. The stag finally introduces himself Maugrim Arthas burns the name into his brain. He was so caught up in staying alive with this altercation that he barely noticed the scent the new stag carried. Sylva he thinks to himself, a small grin appears on his maw. Regardless of a home the beast chooses, should he, Arthas would be able to get to know him better. His eyes flutter back to the beast an offer sounds grand, it seems I have more than one option he notes and Arthas lifts his head with pride. The beast looks at him, awaiting to here about his own offer Yes, My name is Arthas, King of Loess. He shifts his gaze to Maugrim before looking back to the beast my kingdom actually works in alliance with Maugrims home, together we wreak havoc in beqanna. My kingdom is built off of loyalty to one another. He pauses, he would allow Maugrim to speak for his own kingdom, they were a much darker kingdom. It was true Arthas enjoyed a little drama, a little chaos, and death was needed but he did not crave the taste of blood. Not yet at least His gaze settles once more on the beast, hopeful he would return to Loess but regardless content in being able to escape with his life once more.


    A Product Of Your Despair


    @[Maugrim] @[Sinner]
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    #6
    god make me pay
    like the devil i am
    This thing, though he knows not what it’s truly called, is the embodiment of death. He can feel it permeate the air as he draws a breath in deep to his lungs, tossing his head as the creature speaks to him. His blood runs boiling through his veins, the needs for satiation of blood pounding in his head. He sees nothing as he peers into its gaze; a bottomless abyss with no end and no beginning. A fearsome sight, for some, but a relief to the Riverlord. 

    He snorts softly, then. Ah, so it is the true form - a hellish creature, almost ghoulish save for the fact that it is clearly canine. Maugrim’s gaze finally flickers to the other, his dark stare now clawing into the dappled stallion’s eyes as the creature focuses the attention to him. There is a lot of talking (Maugrim only speaks out of necessity) and he finds himself champing at the air, fidgeting beneath the hellhound’s shadowy presence. There is no water here (perhaps in the air, but in the dry weather of autumn, there is no humidity to be used) so he does not give in to the voice inside of his head, and instead maintains a posture that is what is to be expected from three beings having a chat in the afternoon sun.

    “Arthas, King of Loess.”

    Maugrim’s audible snort is not easily missed. King? His tail flicks idly as his eyes sweep back to the hound, ears still firmly planted backwards. It is rather enticing, he assumes for the creature, to be before a king. They hold power and dominion over their own country, whereas Maugrim hardly can begin to understand the concept. The politics and diplomacy of a king were never in his tastes, but he can appreciate the power they demand from their title, as well as their ability to do as they pleased. Maugrim’s eyes fall back to Arthas as he mentions Sylva, and their ties to Loess. I have no home, the evergreen and pearl stallion nearly spits, but then he remembers that is no longer true. Even now he can hear the whisper of the sweet voices of the forest, of the lake he haunts and the cold, damp stone of the cavern. Yes, he does have a place now and it has a name: Sylva. He hadn’t been aware of Sylva’s ties to Loess (politics, again, are foreign to him - there is only blood and power, which is the only thing he can truly trust), and he is suddenly thankful that he had been distracted too much by the hellhound to try anything with the King of Loess - Modicum would surely not be pleased with the outcome, even though he is sure the red-nosed forest King would delight in the story. 

    The creature - dressed by hell itself - turns back to Maugrim and the tobanio’s skin twitches delectably. He has no title to offer the beast, nothing of value beside the need for blood that has controlled him since birth. His nose wrinkles at the thought as he swallows the hunger, ravenously fixing his eyes on the hound. He wants the dark beast to follow him to the forest, to dwell near his cave and haunt his lake, to constantly feed him the high that he is feeling right now.

    He would kill for it.

    A king, or a murderer? Maugrim’s eyes slide keenly to Arthas. Perhaps he should kill him, just to show the creature that kings can bleed. 

    “What shall it be, dear beast?” A brow quirks here, dry lips cracking more as a smile splits them open as his eyes dance coldly back to the hound. “Or do you ask for blood?”
     
    m a u g r i m.


    @[Sinner] @[Arthas]
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    #7
    “Yes, my name is Arthas, King of Loess,"  the dappled stallion states.

    A sinister smirk grows on his lips at the sound of these words. The title of a king held many things—there was potential favor to gain, promotions, and power to receive, but the power of such title did not always hold so true. Kings and queens were easily replaceable, history noted this well within the pages and the legends passed down from generation to generation. Sinner is aware of how fickle power can be, and such power can often corrupt and fall away from what really matters. He knows this well from the teachings of his father (something he had been quite useful for, but even he had become a victim of his own power and was laid to waste like many kings and queens before him).

    The hound listens to his proposal eagerly. He is a seeker of information, keeping the necessary secrets in lock and key, and used when necessary. There was always something useful, even with the slightest of vague information given, to be used and to gain. The two stallions that stand before him work together like a team but against one another. Alliances are fickle just as much as titles and power are—they never last too long anyway.

    “And what havoc is that?” He asks because he is drawn to such darkness. It gives him strength and it feeds the growing hollowed void within his aching soul. Well, if he had a soul.

    Then again, he doesn’t care to know what evil doings they have done yet. It is only about the future that he is interested in being part of. He needed something more than idling around and filling his never-ending hunger for flesh and bone. The world of darkness did not shape and call him out of hell for no reason. Sinner was created to do more than being a message to his father (which he still must complete in order to make things right and finish his mission).

    Maugrim is silent until now. He eagerly turns his red-yellow eyes to the green tobiano. There is something of darkness and hunger in him—something he has drawn exceptionally close to so quickly. It was unnatural to experience, but something tells the beast he will find Maugrim to be more than good company.

    “This is all too fascinating,” he simply says, the never ending smirk remains on his blacken muzzle. Sinner does not need to dwell on such offerings. He has already chosen his placement, but the mention of spilling blood sounds too enticing. The hound does not forget his place though—each one before him plays a role within the future of his life (somehow and some way they do, he knows). “Not today, Maugrim,” he adds with a growl.

    Sinner turns his attention to the king of Loess. “My fate was decided before I stepped foot onto the field. I will be leaving with Maugrim, but I am sure we shall meet again.” They would be sure to cross each other again. “After all we seem to already have ties, Arthas.” He forgets his place. How silly of me, he thinks comically. “King Arthas,” he adds in a silent jester. A king was the same as everyone else to him—it meant nothing.

    “Take me where I belong,” he keenly expresses to Maugrim. Take him to the depths of hell, or even further if you must. Sinner impatiently awaited for the green and white tobiano to lead him. He would follow his kin to the ends of the world—his new master perhaps? He has yet to decide.
    character info: here | character reference: here

    @[Arthas] @[Maugrim]
    Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #8
    god make me pay
    like the devil i am
    There is no tactfulness laced beneath Maugrim’s words. He has shown just about how much politeness that can be seen to an ‘ally’ (any longer, and his patience would clearly run thin), and part of him knows he would jump at the opportunity to rip into another’s flesh by any means possible, even if it was because a hound asked him to do it, and even if there is no water nearby for him to use. He waits with bated breath, dark eyes keenly fixed on the hellish wolf before him - the smoldering embers of its irises burning into the deep and endless blackness that is his own.

    The embodiment of darkness declines his offer with a growl, with which Maugrim responds with a sharp snort, his eyes sweeping to Arthas, nose wrinkling as a scowl finds the pale of his lips. A hooded brow positions itself over his dark expression, ears falling backwards slightly. “Another day, then,” he adds nonchalantly, wondering why it is that allies were so important, or even friends, when water and his own cunning is the only ally he will ever need.

    The hound brings his attention back, and Maugrim’s expression does not change as he meets the creature’s eyes once again - familiar already is the look of the hellhound’s gaze, causing the scowl to upturn slightly into an unearthly and terrible smile. The smile itself is almost unfitting on the normalcy of his hard and stoic features, which makes it all the more unsettling. The catacombs that is the ghostly redwoods of Sylva would harbor the creature well, and Maugrim wonders what other powers it possesses besides the brute strength of its canine-like attributes.

    “The Forest calls us home,” he murmurs almost in a hum, a chuckle vibrating deep in his chest. He moves past the hound, in the direction of Sylva.
    m a u g r i m.


    @[Sinner] continue in sylva? <3
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