there is no good or evil
there is only power and those too weak to seek it
there is only power and those too weak to seek it
The world around them erupts into blood and ash and flame, the soundless drums of war wild in all of their hearts. There is all manner of beast and demon and angel that clashed here amongst the burning Chamber trees. They watched in dying sentinel as the dragonfire continued to burn around them. Prague’s magic is too quick, too feral to be controlled and she shifted continuously, each form more deadly and exotic than the last. The draft doesn’t notice as she sends out the slithering tendrils of vines to snatch around Warships legs as he made his assault – he is already making his descent into the black Chamberling’s body, heavy hooves reaching for any mark.
Others come now and the Nightwalker can feel the thick mingling of their powers in the air as they clashed amongst the smolders. His gaze catches his granddaughter Lexa for but a breath before diamond armor, as black as his shadow skin, covered her frame and the tightness in his chest lessened just a little.
The young mare from before that had shuddered his bones with light was beset by a stallion who burned from his own conjuring. The dragon-king turns to move against the stallion and wolves that bore down upon the girl when he feels hooves and teeth against his back. His wings are membranous, pliable things fortified by boning and talons, these were no silk draperies that hung at his sides. So while the mare’s teeth and hooves find no true purchase on the dragon’s wings, her hooves dig into his black haunch. She comes upon him from behind, teeth and hooves flailing (it would be near a miracle if she managed to miss any of the cactus barbs that covered the great draft’s body) and so he drops his heavy head, coiling his haunches and bucking into whatever undercarriage he could reach – if anything at all. It is always a risky move, intermingling your legs with another, but it is only an instinctual reaction.
Soon he feels a great rush of heaviness move past him, smelling of Jungle and familiarity. He doesn’t need to turn to know it is Lagertha that has arrived, the iron-grey mare’s presence was felt in more than one way. He doesn’t move to make retribution on the mare that Lagertha was now engaging – she needed no help. He thinks to look for his battling rock-statues and who they now had moved their sights upon but he doesn’t waste the seconds on it. He hasn’t stepped over any piles of bedrock yet and so he only assumes the two were still doing what they could – with a rock brain and all.
His black-silk skin is flecked in white flesh cuts, the feathers about his feet thoroughly singed and the Nightwalker roars as he revels in the moment, in the sweet lust of war. That is, before he sees the child murdered before him, the second mare to die before his eyes today. He has no benevolence to give to the mewling tiger that reeled back from the dead girl, mouth bloodied and dripping and yet he dared to whimper as if felt any regret. The tiger says something but the words are nothing to the Deserts king’s ears.
The armored Percheron attempts to send three tall walls of sand up around Ribcage before he can falter further into the sidelines, the walls would have been made of rock instead of sand if his powers were not already so taxed. Perhaps Ribcage can scurry up the sand walls, perhaps not – either way the titan is charging into the opening, cactus-spiked hooves berating whatever fell beneath him. A flush of heat scours up his spine as Cress blows her fire but he is too focused on the child-killer to care about his burning wings.
Others come now and the Nightwalker can feel the thick mingling of their powers in the air as they clashed amongst the smolders. His gaze catches his granddaughter Lexa for but a breath before diamond armor, as black as his shadow skin, covered her frame and the tightness in his chest lessened just a little.
The young mare from before that had shuddered his bones with light was beset by a stallion who burned from his own conjuring. The dragon-king turns to move against the stallion and wolves that bore down upon the girl when he feels hooves and teeth against his back. His wings are membranous, pliable things fortified by boning and talons, these were no silk draperies that hung at his sides. So while the mare’s teeth and hooves find no true purchase on the dragon’s wings, her hooves dig into his black haunch. She comes upon him from behind, teeth and hooves flailing (it would be near a miracle if she managed to miss any of the cactus barbs that covered the great draft’s body) and so he drops his heavy head, coiling his haunches and bucking into whatever undercarriage he could reach – if anything at all. It is always a risky move, intermingling your legs with another, but it is only an instinctual reaction.
Soon he feels a great rush of heaviness move past him, smelling of Jungle and familiarity. He doesn’t need to turn to know it is Lagertha that has arrived, the iron-grey mare’s presence was felt in more than one way. He doesn’t move to make retribution on the mare that Lagertha was now engaging – she needed no help. He thinks to look for his battling rock-statues and who they now had moved their sights upon but he doesn’t waste the seconds on it. He hasn’t stepped over any piles of bedrock yet and so he only assumes the two were still doing what they could – with a rock brain and all.
His black-silk skin is flecked in white flesh cuts, the feathers about his feet thoroughly singed and the Nightwalker roars as he revels in the moment, in the sweet lust of war. That is, before he sees the child murdered before him, the second mare to die before his eyes today. He has no benevolence to give to the mewling tiger that reeled back from the dead girl, mouth bloodied and dripping and yet he dared to whimper as if felt any regret. The tiger says something but the words are nothing to the Deserts king’s ears.
The armored Percheron attempts to send three tall walls of sand up around Ribcage before he can falter further into the sidelines, the walls would have been made of rock instead of sand if his powers were not already so taxed. Perhaps Ribcage can scurry up the sand walls, perhaps not – either way the titan is charging into the opening, cactus-spiked hooves berating whatever fell beneath him. A flush of heat scours up his spine as Cress blows her fire but he is too focused on the child-killer to care about his burning wings.
VANQUISH
dragon king of the deserts
ooc- Vanquish didnt notice Prague's vines attempting to pull Warship away so he still strikes for whatever he can. He turns to help Joselin but Starlace attacks his back, although not ripping his wings she strikes his haunches and he bucks into whatever part of her is still behind him. He doesn't attack Starlace when he knows Lagertha can handle her and turns to see Ribcage kill Larken. Vanquish sends up three sand walls around the tiger, hoping to trap him in and then he tries to trample him into an animal-print piece of shit. Cress burns his back with her flames and also two of Vanquish's rock replications are still out there so feel free to interact/powerplay/destroy those.