the Rift

[OPEN] The Blood's Run Stale

d'Artagnan the Nightshade Posts: 364
Aurora Basin General atk: 6 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 12 HP: 68.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Aramis :: Common Hellhound :: Hellfire & Superspeed imi
[this is an open thread for anyone in the Basin who wouldn’t mind relaying some ‘information’/hearing what he has to say xD]

Enough. There was only so much pacing each day a soul could do, there was only so much waiting around a mind could take and there was only so much of hating himself he could manage before finally the Nightshade started talking incoherently, mainly consisting of curses, to himself. The sun was too bright, the wind was too quiet and his bones were too restless. The Mender was walking slowly near the mountain pass that lead up to the Steppe, his gaze had an odd kind of wild breakthrough to it, like he was finally nearing the decision he had unknowingly been building up to. Doctor. Time Mender. That’s what they called him without even caring to ask if he was okay with it and hanging it around his neck like he should humbly bow because it was a rare gift. He had accepted it under the clause that he had nowhere else to go and Mauja seemed like a good stallion to serve under, the life presented to him then was a lot better than the one he had just run from. For a time it was the best he’d ever felt, he had purpose and like minded horses, he’d met Kou…

Sir! The voice in his head made him jump and d’Artagnan returned to the present to see Aramis falling in beside him. The shade had been so lost in his thoughts that he had completely forgotten he’d summoned his hell dog who now looked up at him with a slight worried frown upon his canine features. It’s time. Don’t stray too far, you can hunt later. The words came firmly, his low vocals striking a dull tone, not alluding to the new chapter and perhaps the final chapter in his life. Understood! Aramis returned, the hound’s own voice rough edged, like he permanently needed to cough up a rabbit leg.

For now the pair began to walk further into the Basin, feral gazes searching for someone, anyone who would listen before they could finally return to the narrow pass that led out onto the snows with no real objective of coming back. There were things that needed to be done and the more he lingered the more he felt like a relic drifting in the past. Illynx and Deimos were enough to keep the unicorns from straying from their original beliefs, Lena was more than capable of heading up the healing. His position had become redundant, he had become redundant. They may not have said it out loud, but the unicorns of the Aurora Basin didn’t need d’Artagnan anymore and every passing day he became more detached from them. He had become the same useless stallion he had been when Mauja had found him, or maybe he had never changed and that thought hit him like a slap across the face. Whilst others rose he remained the same, they expected him to remain the same, only d’Artagnan was deluding himself into thinking that life was actually okay.

It wasn’t. Not anymore. He could not possibly be a Mender when he was the broken one.
But with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide

my heart’s an endless winter
              filled with rage

Use force at your own peril ;) please tag me!

Ulrik the Engineer Posts: 235
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9.0 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1 hh :: 11 HP: 69.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kirchoff :: Common Hellhound :: Superspeed Tamme
Ulrik the Engineer

Ulrik lifted his bronze gaze from the body of a repaired wolf (with a tail this time) only to see a long lost friend (?) make his way up the path. The Engineer had not expected d'Artagnan to return. His fallen body in the Dragon's Throat had looked less than... comfortable, to say the least. He had almost expected the bay doctor to either be dead or imprisoned somewhere, but most likely dead. So, to see this similar minded friend (?) crest the hill brought emotions to his black soul that were almost happy. Almost. So close. Not quite there.

Perhaps he was not the best one to come speaking to d'Artagnan at this time. What he was feeling was something that Ulrik could never understand. His entire life was his work, and he could never feel separated from it. No higher or lesser rank would ever satisfy the need in his soul to create these machines, to be called The Engineer, to be the architect of nature itself in this unnatural way. The title of crafter or mechanic was not bestowed upon him by anyone before he bestowed it upon himself, and to say that he was married to his work implied that he could be divorced from it - and that was terribly far from the truth. He was his work, in every way. To cut it from his being would be to rip out the majority of his soul and mind.

Did that make him shallow? One dimensional? In a way, yes. But within this single dimension was a well cut, multi-faceted diamond which encompassed every normal emotion, beautiful dream, and beating, tender heart. To access the child inside was to go through the machine, navigate the wiring to the CPU. Ulrik knew none of this, none of his inner workings. He was ignorant to his own soul and so incredibly sensitive to the outside world.

Ulrik left his machine and picked up a trot toward the doctor, limping slightly on his scabbed front, right leg. The thick hair of his mane, tail, beard and chest were startlingly clean, and he looked slightly less like the disheveled scientist and more like an upstanding citizen. Oh how looks could be deceiving. "d'Artagnan!" he called, approaching in a pleasant way with the adolescent Kirchoff padding along behind on over-sized paws. The younger hellhound sniffed the air at the other of his kind, standing close to the idiot engineer.

"We never got to finish our... ah... project that Mauja brought to us long ago," he said, the deep, graveled tones of his voice almost sad. He was, of course, referring to that equine mare Mauja had convinced to come home with him; Ulrik had plans, but alas, foiled. "Maybe we could try again?" he asked, wanting to fuse machine and flesh but knowing he could not do so without the doctor's valuable knowledge and skills.

Then, he furrowed his brows. "Are you all right? I have not seen you in... well... in a while." Smooth, Ulrik. Kirchoff sighed in boredom and cast a glance at his bondmate that called him hopeless before wandering in the direction of food. Rats tended to burrow near the trees....

Credits: Whit's tables were an inspiration | Image by Nikkayla

Aviya Posts: 59
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9 | dam: 5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 4 HP: 64.5 | Buff: NOVICE

I wanna be completely weightless
I wanna touch the edge of greatness

Aviya moved swiftly across the Basin, a mission carved into the back of her mind. She was looking for her parents, looking for their guidance and training. She was growing stagnant, she needed something to get her moving in these times of hierarchy turmoil. Upon the wings and whispers of birds had she heard the rumors of Psyche's flee, of Deimos and Ulrik lifting to the throne, of a newcomer challenging the mad engineer. Oh, how it made her skin crawl and her blood boil with a desire to do something just as great. She knew within her heart of hearts that one of her parents would send her on a great journey, all for the glory and benefit of their unicorn blood. The thought sent her cloven hooves harder towards the scent of her father, caught in the delicate white of her dished face.

"Father." Aviya breathed as she stopped, just to the left on front of the crimson bay. However, just as quickly had she arrived, Ulrik also closed the distance between them. Dipping her head some, Aviya watched the bronze-panted beast speak with a sideways glance. Unaware of the past between the two, Aviya's cool exterior pushed aside the thought her eyes of ice moved back to her father. Like Ulrik had mentioned, something looked off with the doctor. Usually he was a figure of strength and passion, though undoubtedly mad and a bit bitter, but a darkness loomed over d'Artagnan that his daughter did not recognize. Flicking her frosted tail, the young princess waited for her father to speak.

Movement beneath the Engineer caught her attention, and Aviya turned her head fully to watch the adolescent hellhound move off. "How old is your hound, Ulrik?" She asked, looking up to the odd eyes of the dark stallion. Her informality was odd, but she felt no discomfort even in the presence of his Lordship. Aviya's question was smooth and quiet, the lace of her voice falling on velvet ears like delicate rain. That is what the mare seemed to be, delicate rain. Not many knew, however, the hurricane that could become the mad stallion's daughter. Aviya watched Ulrik with cold eyes, her body squared and balanced. There was a madness that Aviya deduced from behind the veils of the bronze-painted man, something resembling d'Artagnan in a way, but there was also power. The power of being. Honing on this, Aviya moved closer to the pair of stallions, tail swishing to match the swing of her young hips.

It would be a fallacy to assume that Aviya did not notice the toned muscle that rippled over the shoulders and hairy chest of the large black stallion. It was a physical strength, yes, but Aviya was drawn to it just as much as the strength of his mere presence. Closer now to him, Aviya hummed lightly before clicking her tongue against the back of her teeth. "Father, have you seen mother around?" She cooed, still watching Ulrik with a sideways glance.

[Image: 12gXByu.png]

Deimos the Reaper Posts: 527
Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB

Their enemitic empire was being reshaped, ravenously plucked and quartered, segmented into new distortions, into unfamiliar contortions, and he stood upon the threshold of it, a witness and manipulator of the callous calamity unfolding. Changes arrived in unrelenting waves, shattered old portions, smoldering slivers and splinters, casting them aside for a ravenous regime, for a savage sovereignty, for the weight and wake of malicious intentions – and he wondered amongst the brewing shadows and piercing undulations, how many would be left behind in the upheaval and insurrection. Would they rise with each pressing, daunting failure, brush grime from their knees, polish their swords and shields, honor the gleam and keen of their treachery by a show of menacing ambition, or falter to the ground, choked, strangled, smothered by another cantankerous defeat? Would they give mercenary chase to the concepts of victory again, embittered, rancorous, torn, wolfish and hungry, hankering, craving, yearning and longing for the scintillating conquest of their enemies, just one triumphant moment and memory to consign the humiliation to oblivion, to desolation? The Reaper only knew of his own convictions, of his own sculpted machinations, of his calculated prowess and overwhelming strength, and while he sowed demise, while he languished sedition, while he persevered with pernicious persuasion, he remained unsure of all his other patriots. Wallowing amongst the threads of ignorance, casting specious stones, courting the hollowed corridors of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the vast and abysmal, was not one of his favored occasions, and as he wandered, as he traversed the dominating, dangerous loam, the scent of one Mender broke his reticence.

Deimos had been disappointed with his performance amongst the invasion, like so many others before him. Crumbling, faltering, emptying his efforts into loathsome nothingness, gesturing wildly to the chaos before him as a supreme reign over his tirades, over the goals and motives of their ferocious aspirations, succumbing, yielding, submitting. A friend, a companion, one of the original plagued constituents, surrendering to the brutality of another, was a hard laceration to bear, and even now, muddling over the situation, he couldn’t shake his disbelief, his displeasure. Had something else caused the factors of the good Mender’s collapse? Did he no longer have the same pursuits as his contemptuous constituents, shattered by the loss of his family (Deimos wouldn’t tell him of the bargains he had to make, the treaties he had to snake through his muted tongue to restore them to their rightful home)? Was it another beast altogether, clambering about his back and rendering him into a fool? Mauja’s disappearance? Psyche’s withdrawal? The monster’s own rise to the throne?

He followed the smell, roamed the shades of darkness and demise with his quiet, unholy gait, molded and polished the fine platitudes of licentiousness and heathen contemplations, laid waste to the shackles of divinity and virtue with each menacing step. Upon his approach, the piercing acrimony of his abhorrent gaze captured others tending to the Mender’s appearance; Ulrik, his fellow Lord, Aviya, another layer of offspring, and suddenly, the behemoth thought to retreat, not eager for a public display of thoughts, feelings, sentiments rising into the midst, frustrations coerced from the roughened candor of his grating, harsh lips. Resolution caught him before his steps meandered towards another road, another path, and he materialized into their revolutionary clearing, uttering absolutely nothing, becoming part of the silence, the void, the rush and rhythm of fissures and chasms. He was here to listen, to bestow wisdom if need be, and offer the brief amount of solace he could provide to a loyalist who’d seemingly lost his way. Only the movement of his head, a slight nod of recognition, prestige, given to all three individuals, reticence and recherché claiming his features all over again.

I'm eating all your kings and queens
image credits

Lothíriel Posts: 37
Hidden Account atk: 5.5 | def: 9.5 | dam: 5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hands :: 4 years of age HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Thingol :: Raven :: None krazie
Life had never seemed so splendid to the slip of a girl.

Sunlight shone down upon her dark, soft baby-fleece coat, warming it like mother's love, and the lush tundra grasses were forgiving under her minute hooves as she romped and played with butterflies, their wings as paper-thin and fragile and vibrant as the petals of the flowers that followed her. Mama had warned the child not to stray too far from the protection of her presence (Huyana worried about the babe, already too rambunctious and wild for her own good), but as soon as the scholar had felt the noon sun upon her back, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier until they shut all together—and that was the girl's chance; her first taste of freedom, of adventure, and she would satisfy her thirst for discovery as well as she could, she would quench it thoroughly. There was only one problem: what, exactly, would she do to quell this craving? It was this question which made the babe hesitate, slowing her aimless feet and temporarily staving off the rampaging hunger for enterprise and put her ambitious undertaking to a temporary halt while she pondered this, but she did not have very long: Mama was still within sight. Deep in thought, she eyed the familiar sterling form, traced and re-traced the curves of her figures which she had committed to memory so long ago.

An epiphany.
A splendid idea.

She would go visit Papa.

Mama had warned the fledgling long ago (it had only been several days ago, but it was like an eternity to the week-old filly) not to bother her father, for he was an exceedingly important man with many other duties and cares than a rambunctious baby, but ever defiant and true to her great and fabled blood, Lothíriel was to commit her first act of rebellion. She would visit Papa, whether Mama liked it or not. Anyway, the scholar never dealt out harsh punishments, only a stern glance and a lecture; although only a babe, Lothíriel knew she was her mother's weakness and exploited that fact whenever she possibly could.

So—the suckling tore off at a gallop, a bright trail of little blooms sprouting in her wake (this would work to her disadvantage, but she hadn't realized that yet). Tiny cloven hooves took her far beyond the sight of the inert form of her dam; but those long, spindly legs could only take her so far before they trembled with fatigue. She paused, tossing an uncertain look backwards: this was the furthest she had ever ventured from the comfort of Mama's side, and the sheer thought of becoming lost made her belly roil with unease.
No, she was Lothíriel the Brave, the Bold, the Mighty, many-times descendant from Cinnoru the Cunning, cousin to the demigod Imiq the Serpent: she was not feeble-hearted like common people were; she was impetuous, audacious—the bravest of the brave, the astutest of the astute, the greatest of her generation, and not only was she able of mind and body, she was also beautiful—Mama said so!

With renewed confidence, the tiny figure, terribly aching but fearless, dashed across the hills and gulleys of the green valley, clearly embarking on the greatest quest ever dealt. With a gallant sneer upon her lips, she dared dragons and giants to come her way; she called upon harpies and wyverns and challenged the phantoms of long-dead warlords to approach her; they would all bow before the silver-crested child, she was sure of it! Let her be the queen of all that was dark and abhorrent, the sole beacon of light in this frightening world! She leaped and bucked and whinnied with commotion, sending bits of petal and stems and grass whirling in the aftermath of her splendor. Papa will be so proud of his lavender-eyed daughter after he learned of her crusade, of all the monsters she vanquished for him and Mama—he would name her champion of the valley, protectress of the Basin, and she would be as great and renown as her predecessors!

In all her ruckus and tumult, the little roan had failed to notice how far she had scampered from the watchful eye of her dam. Strange voices and odd, foreign smells interrupted the baby from her reverie of greatness, and her absconding gait broke into a halting, clumsy jog, her distraction causing the hopelessly long limbs to tangle and trip over one another. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to stray so far from Mama, she thought, comically large ears tilting backwards with doubt. "Mama," whispered the girl in that shrill, unsure voice of her's, tongue tripping over the simple syllables, as if the sole saying of her mother's voice would bring her to safety. Dark legs stumbled to a wary walk, careful not to make a sound in the grass but doing so anyway.
Were these brigands, thieves set out to capture wandering little girls? Though she panicked at the thought, she would not permit herself to run; she would be brave for Mama and Papa—she would protect them with all the power vested in that tiny, new body! Bearing the laughable bump of her horn at the voices, the babe bravely crested the hill which hid their faces. She steeled herself for the inevitable attack.

Children have such baffling fortunes.

"Papa!" she cried with relief, as his tall, stoic and gratifyingly recognizable form came into sight. The lamb rushed to his side, flowers scattering recklessly at her feet, momentarily forgetting about her quest and the brigands until her minute form was eclipsed by his own. When the slight form was adequately close to her father's towering shadow, she let lilac eyes pass over the strangers before her. They were all unfamiliar—she had not met anyone other than Papa and Mama in her eminently short lifespan, and the rest of the names she only knew through the lore of her dam.

There was a red bay stallion with two glass horns rising magnificently from his head (one broken, she noted), and it was him all the others addressed. By his side was a strange creature, as tall as she and lithe and dangerous; she cowered further into her father's shadow, feeling her heart rise into her throat with fear (Papa would protect her, so she must not run). There were two others: an exceedingly lofty male (taller than Papa!) with bronze markings which glittered on his shoulder (he had two horns as well; how strange, Lothíriel thought) and a swarthy-pelted girl with a broad white blaze and blue eyes that recalled mother's color, though they were too pale and peculiar to bring any comfort to the filly. She had the same bizarre translucent horn as the bay, but it was shortened considerably, the jagged edges scintillating in the sunlight.

Without shame, the girl stared at them with a mixture of wonder and wariness. Who were they? And what did Papa have to do with them?
we let our battles choose us.
Delicate in every way but one, God knows we like archaic kinds of fun, chance is the only game I play with, baby,

Korra Posts: N/A
:: :: ::

Time came and time went. The small garron seemed unmarked on the exterior, but she was starting to feel the maturity seeping through her bones. When she was younger, it had been the easiest thing in the world to commit herself to being a soldier, a machine, an organ of war. But now, as the years had gone by, she was afraid that she was getting sentimental. Now, you must remember that this is Korra we're talking about - in her book, sentiment is any feeling that is not rage, annoyance, distrust or bloodlust. It was not like she was going around advertising this, though. If anything, she had actually gotten more gruff and dismissive. If that is even possible.

For that same reason, this particular day, she was roaming through the Basin on her own, patrolling the borders as any good soldier should, keeping out the vermin. Rough-haired mane lay like a thick, tangled web down her short, muscular neck, hide slightly rugged even if she was in her summer pelt. The gold on her rump and shoulders caught a stray sun-ray every now and then, but otherwise, the warrioress tried to remain in the shadows. She was comfortable there, and even though the Basin was not so plagued by the summer heat, it could still get too hot for the shaggy wildling if she stayed out there for too long. The barbarian stopped in her tracks as her auburn gaze caught sight of a familiar figure in the terrain. The Doctor, d'Artagnan, whom she had always respected. He seemed distressed somehow - Korra did not know much about expressing emotions, but she could read body-language just fine. She wondered what might be on his busy mind, but only half-heartedly. Korra did not find much entertainment in analyzing things, she would rather just cut to the chase.

The Doctor had been part of this herd even longer than the little garron herself. The circumstances under which they arrived were similar - both rogues with difficult pasts given new purpose under Mauja's rule. Now though, it seemed Mauja might not return, and the herd consisted mostly of members Korra had never bothered to learn the names of. The few old members that remained triggered the nostalgia in her broad chest and made her cringe at herself. Like some elderly woman she was standing there, reminiscing about the good old days. It was embarrassing and provoked a harsh snort, trying to redeem herself somewhat. She was perfectly content with where she was; Korra was not a creature of ambition and she did not strive for anything. Besides from victory for the superior race, that is.

Brown gaze fell now upon the Engineer, Ulrik, who had also been in the herd in those old days. She had never spoken many words with him, but come to think of it, when had Korra ever spoken many words to anyone? The sword and shield watched as the two stallions communicated, not within earshot to make out any conversation and not really caring for their words. Yet there was something about the situation, an urgency, meaning that she could not just up and go like she usually would. Had it been anyone but the Doctor, she might just have left then and there, but she had come to respect him over time, and so I guess she came as close to caring about him as Korra ever could. Now, a young mare joined them. Korra recognized her as the offspring of the Doctor and his Nurse. She could not help but chuckle hoarsely, realizing that the little babe she had seen suckling by her mother's teats was now in fact a soldier, just like the garron herself. If anything, that surely did make her feel ancient, but she could teach the whelp a thing or two any day.

Not far from her, a disturbance in the foliage of the underbrush caught her attention. The large, glooming shadow of Deimos appeared and moved towards the small gathering that she was currently studying, and she was slightly alarmed as always when being close to the grey beast. He was like her in many ways, but when he had recently become a leader of the Basin, she was reminded just how different they really were. Korra could never, would never, want to lead anyone. Her antisocial nature forbade her to commit to the wellbeing of others the way a chief did, and so she felt just fine assuming the role of soldier, serving the greater good. The garron closed in on the flock, reaching earshot just when a child's voice rang clear through the air. Stunted lobes turned in the direction of the sound, thick forelock falling into her eyes as crania was turned as well, a petite filly coming into view. Korra was probably more startled than she should have been, to see the girl call Deimos her 'papa', causing her to halt in her tracks.

Why was she so shocked by this discovery? You need to understand that Deimos is probably the one being in the universe who is more reclusive than Korra. And here he was, a father. This meant that the issue of reproduction had moved not just a couple of steps closer to the little garron; and at her age, if she was going to ever have offspring, she'd have to do something about it soon, they would say. It frightened her not so much what she might decide to herself, but what others would expect, the questions they might ask, the suggestive glances tossed in her direction. "See? If he can do it...", they would say. Yet what frightened her the most was that someone had actually been able to love Death himself - and that someone might just be able to love her, as well.

For a moment, she considered not dealing with it, finding another place to absorb this new aspect of reality, to brood in silence. But she could already be seen by the others, so she put on a stern facade and closed in, nodding in greeting to them as she took up a position slightly removed from them. She was there, but she did not really participate, did not commit herself to their socializing and kept open her option of a quick getaway, should everything get too crowded.

d'Artagnan the Nightshade Posts: 364
Aurora Basin General atk: 6 | def: 9 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17hh :: 12 HP: 68.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Aramis :: Common Hellhound :: Hellfire & Superspeed imi
The normally dormant land of unicorns was unexpectedly teeming with life today and d’Artagnan had to marvel as he was joined one by one by an interesting array of both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Mismatched pools widened in surprise as the first horned head to trot into view before him was the familiar dusky bronze of Ulrik with bonded in tow. So, the Engineer had found himself a servant of hell had he! As a brotherly smile broke out across the face of the bloody Doctor, he noted the way in which his gear head friend limped slightly and winced at the memory of their latest battle. It was not the Nightshade’s finest moment and was one of the main instigators for his downcast feelings right now, though the injury could have been from anything, it was always the first thing that sprang to the front of the elder stallion’s mind. Perhaps in the future looking back, these days may turn out to be d’Artagnan’s most challenging.

He began mental preparations for the bombshell he was about to drop, but allowed himself a brief respite with a husky laugh at Ulrik’s regret and offered the stallion some comforting words. "How about I go prepare you a patient and you can…" He fumbled with his words for a minute, not knowing quite what to call the tribal marked stud’s ‘job’ in the matter and ended up just nodded his head to all of Ulrik. "Do your thing." Words. d’Artagnan never quite managed to get along with words; he was almost certain Kou would agree.The conversation turned to himself then and the shade suppressed a sigh, the heavier part of the conversation had come about, but not before he was joined by others and he postponed answering Ulrik’s question as to his own well being until after he acknowledged his daughter who had indeed arrived around the same time.

She was very much a mare of her own independence now and a soldier at that. d’Artagnan had never been secretive as to who his favourite child was, he knew many would frown upon him for choosing between children, but the girl was his first born and a chip off the old block. Quite literally it seemed as he gaped at her broken horn, a feeling of rage burning inside him and his eyes grew flinty. For a moment, a glimpse of the former imposing Nightshade was visible, drawing himself into his tall frame as he struggled to contain the anger that threatened to bubble to the surface. "Who did that to you, Aviya?!" His voice was low, almost like a growl, fatherly instincts daring the face of the idiot who dared mark his daughter in such a manner.

He might have proceeded to march off to find the bastard there and then if it wasn’t for Aviya’s next question which brought his anger down a peg or two to a low simmer. Mother. Apparently his daughter had yet to find out and he offered her a rare comforting grimace, "your mother, along with your twin brothers, were taken by the Worlds Edge. I have not heard from them since before the invasion and I do not know if they have escaped." He watched his daughter carefully, knowing full well that if she was anything like he was in his youth then he’d have a tough time holding her back from waltzing straight to the land which was her birth home. He prayed to anyone who cared to listen that she had at least inherited some of her mother’s common sense.

However, in the time he had been informing his daughter of the unfortunate events, the Reaper himself had appeared along with an interesting little character who called him of all things… Papa?! Crisis forgotten for the moment, the Nightshade turned on his old friend with a raised eyebrow and an all knowing look. d’Artagnan never thought he’d see the day, a mare had defeated the Lord of death himself and her before him was the fruit of that loss. "Congratulations" he quietly nodded to Deimos, his mind wondering what condition the mother would be in considering the Lord’s… Affliction? Grabbing onto his bonded’s thought, Aramis’ presence increased on the Nightshade’s conscience with a wave of amusement behind it, at least she went out with a bang. d’Artagnan threw the hound a look of disbelief, biting his gums to chase away the laughter that threatened to erupt across the snowy mountains, his eyes glazing over temporarily before finally he caught himself. Idiot was all he offered the hell dog in return.

Lastly before he could turn to the matter that required the most attention, he regarded Korra in pleasant surprise. When was the last time he saw that mad mare? Where had she been? No, d’Artagnan wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know exactly where Korra had been, he could have been angry at her mystery absence, but then again who was d’Artagnan to comment. The battle fluttering to his mind again. He gave her a nod once, accepting into his rather large circle of friends and family. The time had come, he needed to present his problem to these few horses (and foal) and respectfully take his leave. If they would let him, that was.

He turned to Ulrik, finally able to answer the Engineer’s last question and he used that as a guide into laying out his heart for all to see. "No, I suppose if I’m honest, I’m not in what you would call… an alright place." A shaky start, but he persevered. d’Artagnan wasn’t used to speaking so much and in front of so many, without the help of at least a few curse words that is. "I feel I am becoming more burden than use to you all. I no longer wish for this title I was given… First Doctor, now Mender. I never really fit the role in the first place, the Gods must have been full of wishful thinking when they handed me their power." He laughed bitterly at his own statement and frowned, this was becoming harder than he thought it would. He knew what he felt, but to put it into words was something else. Eyes roamed about the land, as if trying to find his inspiration there, but instead, with a sigh, he found more confirmation. "I’m sorry if you expected more from me, but I can no longer live this stagnant herd life, I need to find where I left my blood lust…" He smiled because, oh, there were so many ways of finding ones blood lust again.

Finally, he turned to Aviya, "I’m going to go find your mother and then perhaps I will go find elusive Mauja and his fluffy bird, if the idiot hasn’t dropped off the face of the earth and joined old man time lost in space… Know that I am proud of you Aviya, you can do much better than your old man. If I am within reach of call, I will of course always come to your aid." With that he turned on them all as a whole and fell silent, wondering what their responses would be after announcing his retirement of sorts from the Mender title and all but pledging his allegiance to Mauja.

[oh man, sorry for the wall of text and it being uber late xD My muse for him is really below par, but it did return with this post. can you tell rofl]
But with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide

my heart’s an endless winter
              filled with rage

Use force at your own peril ;) please tag me!

Ulrik the Engineer Posts: 235
Deceased atk: 5.5 | def: 9.0 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17.1 hh :: 11 HP: 69.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Kirchoff :: Common Hellhound :: Superspeed Tamme
Ulrik the Engineer

Ulrik's concerned bronze eyes lit up with child-like, disturbing madness, and his charcoal ears tilted forward ever so slightly. The stallion nodded eagerly. "I would very much like to.... try..." he trailed, blinking a few times, his leonine tail whipping around his legs excitedly. "If I am able to replicate the look of a horn but add some other type of machinery, perhaps I could even control the mind..." he mumbled frantically, speaking almost too quickly to be understood. Only the doctor's daughter snapped him out of his thoughts, and he jerked his head in her direction.

The young girl spoke and glanced down at Kirchoff who received all the attention. A grin crossed the hellhound's lips and he trotted a little closer. "Months," he responded, snorting a little at the creature's penchant for the lime light.

d'Artagnan fussed over something with the girl, but Ulrik was not too terribly concerned. Instead, he looked as Deimos and a child who called him "papa" approached. Ulrik raised a single brow at the Reaper, a smirk on his lips. Who would have though that the death dealer himself would procreate? Certainly not this engineer. He cast a sideways glance at a familiar bay mare and nodded his head once before craning his neck down to look at the child, peering at her from where she stood. Ulrik had a very bizarre soft spot for children, especially the little unicorn children.

The stallion smiled, the expression supposed to be sweet but turning out to be more... frightening. Ulrik tilted his head to the side just a little. "Hello, little girl," he rumbled, careful to stay far enough away from Deimos so that his death magic would not lash out and strike him where he was. "What are you doing today?" he asked, his gaze focused. However, the pull of adult conversation drew him back, and he lifted his muscular neck to better regard the words of the doctor.

Ulrik understood better than most the doctor's need to get away, so he simply nodded. "I will gladly help you regain your taste for blood, should you need inspiration," he murmured, his eyes glittering with the intensity of his dark designs. "You and I... well... I believe we can accomplish wonderful things. If need anything that I can provide, I would be more than willing to give," he said, swiftly inclining his head in a gesture of respect.

"Good luck, finding the Ice King."

Credits: Whit's tables were an inspiration | Image by Nikkayla

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