02-14-2016, 07:13 PM
Let the oceans run red with blood, let the sky blacken with dark clouds and the pounding of the drums of wars fill the ears of every man, woman, and child whom chose to make her their enemy—let it be the last thing they ever hear; for she is Wrath, and Hell hath no fury like her when she is scorned..
The ocean roars and slams against the cliffside, spraying seafoam across the smooth stones; water pools in the cracks, unable to escape, it gathers around his rusted hooves and the old wicked Queen feels her black heart begin to sink. “Khaos?” She whispers, inching closer towards the edge. The wind tugs at her mane and tail, lightning crackles somewhere further away from shore and the thunder rumbles—more lighting, the thunder gains volume as the storm draws nearer to land. Khaos does not move, he stands as still as those goddamn statues she once destroyed during her stint in The Valley. Syntyche can feel tears threatening to seep from the corners of her green eyes, but she blinks them back. Whatever beast had done this to her darling grandson would have to pay for it.
A dragon eye for a dragon eye, you see.
“Falk,” She glances behind her, searching for her youngest son. “Let us find out who lives here.”
They might have answers.
She might peel their fucking skin from their bodies if they don’t.
Really, she’s open to anything at this point.
It’s the familiar call that draws Syntyche out of musing, she spots her favorite daughter wandering below the cliffs and smiles. It’d been years since she last saw her dearest Oswyn and it only brightens her spirits all the more when she spies a little winged child in tow. How marvelous. “You’re fine, Falk,” she assures the colt as both their hooves leave the ground and they begin to glide towards the duo—who are soon approached by a stallion. Syntyche says nothing as both she and her son land softly behind Oswyn, though her ears flick forwards and a slight smirk curves her mouth. Oswyn? A grandmother? And her great-grandson, so handsome. So gifted.
She’s never been more proud.
“Dearest daughter,” Syntyche says, before her eyes flick to Kirin. “I highly doubt you’ve heard of me. I am Syntyche, mother of Oswyn—grandmother of Khaos.”
The ocean roars and slams against the cliffside, spraying seafoam across the smooth stones; water pools in the cracks, unable to escape, it gathers around his rusted hooves and the old wicked Queen feels her black heart begin to sink. “Khaos?” She whispers, inching closer towards the edge. The wind tugs at her mane and tail, lightning crackles somewhere further away from shore and the thunder rumbles—more lighting, the thunder gains volume as the storm draws nearer to land. Khaos does not move, he stands as still as those goddamn statues she once destroyed during her stint in The Valley. Syntyche can feel tears threatening to seep from the corners of her green eyes, but she blinks them back. Whatever beast had done this to her darling grandson would have to pay for it.
A dragon eye for a dragon eye, you see.
“Falk,” She glances behind her, searching for her youngest son. “Let us find out who lives here.”
They might have answers.
She might peel their fucking skin from their bodies if they don’t.
Really, she’s open to anything at this point.
It’s the familiar call that draws Syntyche out of musing, she spots her favorite daughter wandering below the cliffs and smiles. It’d been years since she last saw her dearest Oswyn and it only brightens her spirits all the more when she spies a little winged child in tow. How marvelous. “You’re fine, Falk,” she assures the colt as both their hooves leave the ground and they begin to glide towards the duo—who are soon approached by a stallion. Syntyche says nothing as both she and her son land softly behind Oswyn, though her ears flick forwards and a slight smirk curves her mouth. Oswyn? A grandmother? And her great-grandson, so handsome. So gifted.
She’s never been more proud.
“Dearest daughter,” Syntyche says, before her eyes flick to Kirin. “I highly doubt you’ve heard of me. I am Syntyche, mother of Oswyn—grandmother of Khaos.”