"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
I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory
He is slumbering, somewhere far away, his pink nose tucked beneath the tip of his feline tail, protection from the snap of cold in the autumn air. The mountains of Hyaline are colder than the ground level, but his thick tawny pelt is plenty of protection. Ryan’s dreams are relatively pleasant – flowers on the mountain in springtime, watching foals frolic in the lake after the sun has warmed it, his best friend Keeper emerging from her typical hibernation. Cats do not hibernate the way bears do, and he always misses her the most in the winter, even if she isn’t around in the summer.
The first sign that all is not well is when his dreams of spring turn to dreams of winter – snow in the air and ice underfoot. Ryan the dream-cat wrinkles his nose in distaste and looks around at the lonely landscape, spine prickling in unease. Even in winter Hyaline should not be this quiet – but he isn’t in Hyaline. The damp earth underfoot is someplace unfamiliar, and so is the face that stares back at him, unsuspecting and unfocused, as if Ryan is not there. The other stallion has a mark on his chest, something unclear, but the voice echoing around them and the visions that accompany chill him to the bone. He’s on his feet almost before the sleep clears from his mind, shot towards Pangea like an arrow from a bow on silent feline feet.
He doesn’t know the unsuspecting stranger is a relative. Ryan is significantly younger than Rhonen, his uncle, and he had not spent enough time with his mother to ever hear of her missing baby brother; Nairne had been more than a little mentally ill when he was a child.
What he does know, or thinks he knows, is that something in Beqanna has told him that this stranger will bring death and destruction to his world – and to his few loved ones. The cat will not allow this. Nor, it seems, will others. Ryan is not even the first feline to arrive – he hisses instinctively at the tigress from his crouch, but ignores the equines with a single-mindedness that is born of pain and magic-induced fury; he sneaks in underneath flying hooves and snapping teeth and he bares his own formidable set of teeth. The striped creature had gone with the power behind her large mass to strike with a clawed paw, but he is considerably smaller; still, an equine’s tender skin is no match for his tearing jaws.
Consumed with the same desperation as the others, the panther leaps from underneath, seeking to sink his teeth into Rhonen’s soft throat. To remove this threat.
For Ryan’s sake, hopefully he stays the unknown son forever; hopefully he will never have to know the identity of the man whose demise he has rushed along.
The sun sets on another day in the Pangea. Dried blood cakes my nostrils as the sickness of the land takes hold. It would be enough to convince others to move from this land. To be free of the cancer that seeps from its core. But I am not that weak minded creature. I have a purpose and I await instructions from my Dark God.
.
It comes as an image, the marked chestnut, and it comes with a demand. Kill. My eyes close in jubilation at my God summoning me to complete such a task. I did not care if the equine wreaked havoc on all of Beqanna, throwing it into the dark ages. But, the command comes from the one I worship and would die for, so I act...
My sickly form moves quickly. The air is thin and causes me to breathe heavily before I am even started on my journey. A cough rattles through my chest, spitting droplets of blood onto the sands of my home. The crimson liquid is quick to recede into the soil, the cursed kingdom consuming every bit of life bled onto her shores. With each stride I am drawn to the eastern part of the territory. My red pitless eyes seeking to find the one who has been condemned. I can taste his blood, feel his fear.
I arrive just as another takes claim to a task I am sure was meant for me, but I do not attack. I watch. More arrive and soon they are fighting amongst themselves. Some to save the victim, and some to be his undoing. Cats begin to prowl, striking with claw and teeth. Winged beings come as saviors(fools, you cannot save the damned). I chuckle lightly as I turn to circle the gathering in another direction. That is when I see her. A malicious grin spreads across the only lips I have left. I needed health and she hadn't been here long.
"Thank you mother." Is my final words as the bayed mare who had bore me -cursed me- collapses to a heap of bone and flesh. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, Mother. I feel an electric surge of adrenaline fill my veins as her life renews me. The air no longer rattles in my lungs and blood does not spew from my lips.
I have hardly rejoiced in my ecstasy, when a pegasus leaps from the crowd in a feeble attempt to save my lifeless mother. I cackle louder as I slip from his grasp and watch as he looks in confusion at what has happened. None were safe here and they had gathered so conveniently for the slaughter. They were but sheep, waiting for the wolves.
Attention turns again to those gathered. My powers would work from this distance and with so much life dangled like treats before me, I can't help but sample each piece. Slowly, with each nibble, I find the rips in my coat begin to not fester as badly. The oozing of puss does not leak as it had and the rank stench of death is not so thick upon me. And a hunger rises within me to want more, so I focus my magics on the one who is the walking dead. I reach the fingers of my powers deep into his core. Exploring the edges of his body and feasting on the strength of the chestnut stallion. What I find intrigues me and what I seek cannot be found within him. He is disease at its finest. And, for a moment I am pleased to call him my Grandfather...
my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
and that continually.
She is not unused to visions – she has supped quite often of madness, has heard voices, seen creatures dead, alive, and nonexistent.
She is not so used to visions from her own father (her own rapist, too, but that’s another rabbit hole, a nasty one). But she recognizes his voice, echoing in her mind, invasive, sending images of a chestnut stallion with a seal on his chest.
Curious.
My corpse masterpiece pauses, head lifting, sniffing the air as if she is a bloodhound. She has yet to step foot on Pangea’s shores (odd, that she hasn’t, it seems like such a good match for her – Carnage-created and half dead). But she knows the way. She sees other horses heading that way, too, and it comes to her that this is not her vision alone, that it is shared.
A communal killing, then. Alas, she does so hate to share.
“Rhonen!” she cries, as if she knows him, shrieking his name across the drowned woods, hunting. She is not cunning in this hunt, she is oafish, brutal, crashing through underbrush.
Another vision comes, now, and whether from the dark god or her own dead brain, she doesn’t know.
Rhonen and his father, Mikhael.
Her own son. Hers and the queens.
(She’d loved her, as much as creatures like her could love anything. But she fucked that up, of course, so then she – well. She ruined her.)
Nasty memories. Nasty.
She has never felt much for her own blood, has viewed them with a detached curiosity, a bit of bewilderment, as if they had suddenly appeared beside her.
She feels nothing now, as she finds him, one amongst a throng – there are beasts and horses, and some stand in pious protection, others want for blood.
She is the latter.
She dives into the fray, crashing against their bodies, hooves flailing at her own grandson, seeking flesh, seeking anything, seeking to feel alive.
**she does nothing useful. basically just shows up. :| carry on.
-Raeg'n-
They were blessed, at least, that Death hadn't found them yet. The demon. Deimos. He'd feigned sudden disinterest the last she saw him, when Pangea fell and she washed ashore without her young charge and his newest guardian. But she wasn't fooled. Only milliseconds before, he had been consumed in his desire for her, his greed to take her away and keep her for himself. Perhaps his plan had been unraveling too loudly for her to see it. An abrupt turnabout in attempt to hide it from her.
But she was not fooled.
He would return. For her, for little Ruan.
He'd had a plan for the boy for months, years now, and he was pure evil. Evil didn't just decide to be merciful.
She was not fooled.
And he was the greatest fool if he thought it.
It was days later she would find Raksha - No. Rocinante, the demon had told her. The powerful guardian, the knight with untold stories of countless victories and tragedies in his deep eyes. Secrets she may never know; secrets he would never speak in his permanent silence.
But she had not found the boy.
Kilter. Her Ruan.
Rocinante had understood and helped her search for him with equal if not more haste and concern as she had. It made her conclude that he had done this at least once before. He must have been Guardian to someone once. Or more than once. His skill was obvious, and in so many ways he was her better, far more experienced. But his respect for her seemed to hold her in their lead, allowing her to make most of the choices. And if ever she was uncertain, she need only to glance at his face, his body language, and know when he agreed with her decision and stood behind it, or when he doubted and they would reorganize their plan.
Their goal above all else was to protect their boy.
She was his Angel, after all. She could not join her angel mother in heaven until her duty on Beqanna's earth was complete. Beginning with him.
They hadn't found him though. And when a call rang out in her mind - their minds - she didn't even hesitate. The world was at grave risk. Her boy was at grave risk, wherever he might be. She would find him.
Her golden eyes widened, midnight blue lips parting. She was all too familiar with this mind-speak. Deimos had done it freely, even pushing vulgar images into her mind to manipulate her, make her buckle mentally since she cannot buckle physically. This was not Deimos, though, and so she did not hesitate to see for herself.
She bolted, her deep indigo body filled out and toned in muscle, built and trained as a warrior. Her training with Magnus had been cut short and she had vanished from his land, but Rocinante was sparring with her, keeping her sharp. And as soon as they found their boy, they would train him too. He needed to be able to protect himself. Their days were consumed in searching for him.
The warrior angel was introduced to battle by the wildfire of her hair, orange and furious against her dark skin, flinging through the air behind her as she ran at full speed. One.. Her face was set in resolute determination, her feet pounding mercilessly across the terrain. She would return home to Pangea where they'd been held captive. She would rid this world of its evils. She would earn her wings and see her mother again.
Somewhere in her wake - or perhaps above her - was the Guardian. A violent threat of his own.
This scourge-ridden beast wouldn't know what hit him.
Her confidence was already impossibly high, being invincible would do that, but knowing he had her back and that he was with her, always, bolstered her strength. Two.. She kept count, always kept count. Each flash through her blood, her magic resetting her to perfect health. Her slender legs gained more speed, covered more distance, and with starset eyes she took in the unfolding sight before them with a firmness in her brow.
There were fighters, magicians. Attackers, defenders. Healers.
Her gait held strong, barreling forward with purpose. She had plenty of time to survey the mess, to deduce that it was indeed a mess, and a quiet little pang in the back of her mind warned her that perhaps this was a ploy. A falsehood. She had experienced many with the Demon.
So her steady gaze sought out the knight, searching his face and those brown eyes for the direction she needed. She was still so young, still lacked the experience he must have gained long before she was born. In one of those less frequent moments, she depended on him to take the lead. Because they all knew, when it came to that boy, she was in charge.
He had followed her to Hell, and he would be a poor, damned soul if he didn't follow her back. Rocinante would travel the ends of the world for the sapphire mare with the sun in her hair. The goliath had crossed the wastes of Pangea once to be with Raeg'n, stood toe to toe with the demon that plagued her, and stood with her when it fell. She had been there for him when his bones cracked and feathers fell as the land changed once again. He had watched her silent grief, her panic, after they had drug their broken bodies from the surf where Pangea had once stood and the boy had not followed them. Rocinante had spent days trying to find the midnight mare, The beautiful creature that had given him life again, given him purpose. When they had reunited, her by wasn't there. They had spent so long searching for the little Grulla boy, waited so long for the slightest sign.
But Kilter didn't come back, and it was his fault.
Rocinante blamed himself for the boy's disappearance, after all wasn't it he who had told the boy to stay put? They were playing hide and seek, Kilter was staying safe so Rocinante could focus on protecting Raeg'n. It was supposed to end. Instead he had torn the mare from the one she cared for most. The stallion had played at protector and failed. The rage and grief had torn through him, and he had not the voice to scream.
If only he had kept him closer.
If only he had gotten to her faster.
If only.
When the call to Pangea comes it almost feels like a blessing, a second chance. Almost.
FIND HIM KILL HIM
The words ring and the images echo between the titan's ears. The unmistakable call of the dark god that had given birth to the unholy land once again. Flashes of the unassuming chestnut with a seal etched across his skin send Rocinante seeking the eyes of his companion. But he can see that she has already made up her mind. Without words his strides match hers in pace as they cross the lands, and pause in their search of the missing Kilter, to answer the call.
She is determined, a single-mindedness etched in each stretch of muscle, in each thump of hoof on dirt. Rocinante is powerless to stand against her, to bar the way towards a path that surely spells their destruction. No good comes of playing with gods.
They crest the hill and the scent of death, of blood and sweat, of battle, assails their nostrils. Churned, damp earth encircles the frenzy of horses clashing over the fate of the chestnut stallion. It is a riot. It is primal. A battle that for many falls into the grey areas of morality. Some heal, most hinder, and Rocinante has made up his mind. His warm brown eyes seek Raeg'n's and he finds her already watching him, waiting. He wishes he could apologize for all he had done and all he was about to do, but alas, his heart in his eyes will have to do. He bows low before the beautiful midnight mare before charging into the fray.
He quickly picks up speed as he races into the thick of the fight using his gargantuan size to his advantage against the others, pushing them out of the way and clearing a space near Rhonen. The mighty titan lashed out against any that came near the chestnut stallion, clipping the assailants with massive hooves and snapping teeth. He would defend Rhonen from those that wished him dead. It was his path to redemption, to his righteous heart, and perhaps the only way he knew how to achieve atonement for failing the one he loved.
Warlight follows Carnage's command, teleports to the fight and attacks beside @[Raul]
She has everything.
The heir of a vibrant kingdom among a herd of others her age. She should be happy, or at least content, but there is a restlessness in her that is festering, putrifying the pure and energetic spirit she had been born with. But Warlight still needs purpose of her own, to step out of her mothers' thick and cloying shadow; she needs to be more than a clog in their machine.
So when she leaves she tells no one, not that they could stop her from dreaming herself away.
The dark god calls to her and the importance of this summons reverberates across her slim frame as she sleeps. She feels the pull, the command, of him and she doesn't think to disobey. She may have been a rebellious child, but now as s young mare, she is easily bent under the magnitude of his infinite power.
The bay splashed girl appears out of thin air beside the fray. The stench of bodies and blood nearly causes her to stumble back, so stark is the contrast from the clean grasses of the Hyalineian meadow where she had been sleeping beside her brother.
Shoulder to shoulder with another only a year or so her senior, Will dives fearlessly into the mass of bodies, feeling the fire of the frenzy kindle in her veins. The pale colt beside her strikes out at their target and the princess of Hyaline does the same. Rearing up, Warlight tucks her chin to her chest and seeks to drive her yearling's antlers into their victims flank.
Uncoiled and alone, he parts from Tindalos’ side and says little and nothing when the other stallion gently presses his nose against his cheek. Faint as it was, quick- he cannot help but smile and there is a nod he gives to someone unseens: to a woman whose form shadows his own and who stands idly beside Tindalos.
‘I hear something, I’ll look- for all of us.’
He thinks, listens and notes the sound of the voice. Familiar in a way his spattered body is guided through the newly risen Pangea towards the place where calamity echoes and he can hear the cacophonous screaming and howling of maddened men and women.
Tithe is, by nature, slender and more streamlined than some. With hotblooded features that yet carry some strength, this is outlined by the pale apricot and spattered gray… by the primitive markings and almost ruddy tinge of his body and its curves. Gliding through coral-grown and barnacle covered plants and rocks, he notes the moss and algae, the broken seashells and all the litter of ash and sand. He can smell the corpses of fish and whale, of sharks, and see the bones and rotting meat of creatures forced upon the earth.
It disturbs him; but, he does not blink: Pangea is his birthplace, his home.
There is a quiet second before he turns the corner of some great stone when he hears the screaming and maddened frenzy at its loudest: when he feels a reverberation of something impossible. “Grandfather,” she states loudly- purposeful and aware. “It seems you have brought Pangea back to this world.” the sentiment is not malicious nor evil, not joyful; but rather it is sobered and calm.
Whether or not @[Carnage] hears him, he cannot say; but he sees it then.
A writhing mass of frenzied flies and maggots desperate to snap and feed upon the corpse of a man who has long been dead. Some try to help, to free the beast from its festering and parasitic attackers; but they are few and far between. Tithe grits his teeth, thinks of Carnage’s message and the brutal truths of his Grandfather he learned so long ago. Yet even then he considers Mordgeld and Tindalos, he considers the coupling of them and the child growing in the ancient mare and the role it will have in his life.
‘I must protect my son.’ he tells himself. ‘I must protect Tindalos, and even Mordgeld- I cannot let the chance be true that this man will bring us sickness.’
And for the moment there is fire in his heart.
Tithe, too, becomes frenzied but not in the way others have: oh no, he is purposeful in his steps and agile, quick without failed footing. The hooves digging into broken shells and sand, his body carried through the mass and lacking power as others he charges for the head of the rotting beast. His body turned as forelegs drive down into the ground and his weight is thrust into a turn and spin: the back legs coiled with all his strength and hooves snapping out suddenly into a single kick that is not aimed at the lower chest… on no- it is aimed for the upper parts.
Seeking to impact the base of the throat, he finds himself brought to earth again after the attack, to turn and look: prepared to stand for the family he calls his own… amidst the frenzy and wild.
( tldr; he kicked him in the base of the throat/upper chest. he ain't got powers or special gifts, but I do give the @[Officials] team permission to go wild with consequences as a result of his attack and subsequent participation. )
The God-Mage is both her father, and her great-grandfather; she has been warned many times in her life that he is dangerous, and untrustworthy, but that doesn’t keep her from curiosity. Her mother’s family did quite a good job of keeping the purple roan away from her famous sire, but over time they have become less vigilant; busy with their own lives, and the large (extra large) brood of children that make up her extended family. Over time, though, Cassady has only become more curious about Carnage.
She knows nothing of Rhonen – nothing about how the girl who has drawn him to Pangea is her own half-sister. Cassie, like her other siblings, is mostly estranged from her capricious and fickle mother, and so she knows nothing about Kellyn’s youngest daughter with the chestnut stallion. All she does know is that this dream is from her mysterious father, and it paints a world that would be dangerous for everyone she’s ever loved. Her mother and her sisters; her cousins and grandparents, the extended family, her sons; Rhonen means nothing to her, nothing but danger and death.
In many ways, she is not the child of either parent. Usually she is calm and collected, and peaceful; if anything she is more like her maternal grandfather, the calmest and least violent on the family tree. But something about this silent and dreadful threat to her world is too much; she awakens from a deep sleep in ghost form and flies across Beqanna with single-minded determination, joining the others on the spooky damp grounds of Pangea.
She is intangible in ghost form, sliding amongst the attackers, paying no attention to the would-be rescuers, trying to lock brown eyes with brown eyes. Trying to decide if Carnage is crazy, like all of her relatives say, or simply trying to save the world.
In the end, it’s simple math. It doesn’t matter if he’s innocent – it’s not worth the risk. One might die, or hundreds might die.
His life is not worth a hundred lives, or several hundred.
Most spirits are incorporeal, as she is now; but they are not always. She calls to them, pulling them to her, the many spirits. The dead, the unhappy, the vengeful, the angry. And they come, as she has come, and some are dangerous enough to cause physical harm. Others simply tear at his spirit, countering the healing effects of the would-be rescuers, sapping his will to fight back. Cassady never has to land a physical blow herself, but simply draws back and watches in solemn fascination as the ghosts add to the destruction of the living.
What calls? The child turns her head towards nothing, listens with ears straining towards nothing. Eyes are white and blind with vision, an image planted in her mind that shows her the vast, colorless, twisted Pangea. The vision stretches, pulls, sends her mind flying toward a chestnut creature that she must destroy. She has been commanded, but she does not heed because she cares or understands or believes the strange stallion is a danger...
Into her veins spills what she will one day call lust--though it is blacker than the desires that drive women into the arms of men--and her flesh sings with tension and need. That song dulls the soreness in her muscles and helps her ignore the minor sprain in her right wing from her fall. Her first attempt to launch herself skyward is a failure, she stumbles not expecting the sting from the bloodied abrasion on her right shoulder. Baring up she lunges forward again and surges skyward with a shout. The ground falls away and she is racing towards violence, keen eyes sweeping the world below in search of a chestnut aberration on the bleached ground.
Beyond her wings, the cremello girl is without any special ability. While she does not look long for the flurry of attackers and the death-sentenced Rhonen, she circles once overhead looking for an avenue of attack. It’s madness below, vicious attackers, a few foolhardy defenders. Her head throbs with the lingering command to destroy the stallion, and while she isn’t afraid to land in the mired earth around the frenzy she does hesitate to drop down and put herself into the crush of bodies and then be unable to take off again. She has no choice, but might as well make us of her one ability while she can.
Closing her pinions tight Leokadia drops from the sky, barreling towards the chaos around Rhonen. When she throws her wings again it is feet above her target, her teeth snap at air, but her hooves slash at the chestnut stallion, though they are small hooves the force of her dive puts a punch behind each of them. Pumping her wings hard she manages to pass over the crazed knot but she isn’t strong enough to return to the sky and the proximity of the gnarled tree makes her strokes falter. Tipping, the filly drops out of the air, another crash, though this time mercifully into mud. Grey mud, someone’s blood, both stain her fine pale hide, and turns her sweet face filthy, her pale eyes like those of a wight as she rises and turns back toward Rhonen. She pulls wings, thick with mud, in against her body and scrabbles through the thick filth heedless of what might befall a child, not even a year grown, in a blood-hungry mob like this.
She is dodging hooves and teeth when she lunges closer, snapping at anyone who gets too close too her, but they aren’t here for her. They are here for him and Leokadia is a small fury in the writhing mob, but she looks for purchase on the stallion’s thick hide with teeth and hooves just as eagerly as all the rest.
He’s already known by the way the land soaked up his energy and blood, that it needed more sacrifices.
His smile is content, not even wicked, as he makes his way over to the scene. He spots Lo in there, and Zain, but why his friend is killing someone else is beyond him.
It’s easy, all in all. The chestnut carries a sickness, way worse than his own, and so he does not need to sicken himself further to do any damage. Instead, he ghosts to the edge of the group, a see-through young stallion, hoping to finish what they’d all started on last winter. Had it been that long yet? Strange, how time flies.
Nevertheless, he has one job. And his godly father had gifted him with the way to do it, so it was only proper that he use it. So he extends his consciousness, finds the sickness in the man, and feeds it. Make him easier to die. Perhaps the sickness will spread to those who are attacking Rhonen, perhaps it’s not so contagious.
He doesn’t care.
No cost too great. No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry out suffering.
Zain
![[Image: Warlightpageddoll1.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/NMPHtrtV/Warlightpageddoll1.png)
