the Rift

[OPEN] take what the water gave me

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

Deimos contained himself for the stretch of time and expanse glowing and pulsing beneath their feet – his heart was enthralled, despaired, moved to munitions and damned to snippets of euphoria. The beast tucked a hidden smile between his solemn mouth and magnificent nonchalance, grinning beneath the widening shadows and slinking secrets, and if he were bolder, he may have turned to wink at his daughter, casting his eyes in more shades of blue and wistfulness, feasting his gaze upon her blossomed, safe, secured presence, promising to never let go.
But he was veiled too, tangled in all their voids, all their sorrows, all their regrets, locked in the gallows of her latest confession (I lost her), and realizing he’d lost her now too – and even if he grasped, clenched, and held tight to each tiny raindrop beckoning across Birdsong’s mirth, it would never be her. The sea would call him back like a siren, and it would never be her. The dew would linger in the embrace of the sun, and it would never be her. He was helpless all over again, and he loathed reliving the experience – but refused to believe she was truly gone. He would know. He would sense it.
The ghosts of his path would like to have drowned him, perhaps, bestial and savage and without mercy: sometimes, she came to him as a hallucination, a withering, slinking mirage, basking in the downpour outside of his cave, serenading, cajoling…
The Reaper swallowed back the bile enclosing his throat, the acrid, noxious taste of enduring grief, the pungent, bitter sentiments of his failures leaping back at him (because he couldn’t go or chase after her, and she was out in the thickets and meadows of another world, and he could do nothing), and tried to prevail over the notion that at the very least, his child had returned to him. Bright, beautiful, blooming and fair, powerful and prophetic, sweeping the earth with flowers at her feet and foreboding in her whims; he slowed and turned towards her as they rambled along the icy pathways, across the frozen corridors, desperate and content all at once. “Welcome home.” He gestured towards the nefarious sentinels stoic and sullen above them, at the cascading mountains, at the thrones and vigilantes and pariahs tucked between each cavern and valley, then swiftly curled his stare back to her, and her alone. “I missed you,” he echoed from their last words along the locked gates; too radiant, too defiant, against all the sullen, desolate pieces mottled within his skull, sweeping away the Mephistophelean sentiments for the opportunity to cherish his daughter. “So did the Basin.” There, he winked, a brief return to the juvenile days tossed aside so many ages before, permitted the boyish grin to christen his features, sully the straight line of his lips, conjuring heartfelt wishes and silly sentiments only a father could dream, and wandering forth, into the nooks and crannies of their massive land so it may reclaim its lost princess all over again. The winter Lord could be doused in the shield of his sorrows another day – the present was worth celebrating.

 [flowers crowns time, yes?]
i'm not here looking for absolution,
because I found myself an old solution

@Enna @Tiamat @Lothíriel

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

Every mile they travel is more familiar than the last, and all the while Lothíriel follows closely at her father's hip, revelling in the routine turned unusual. hough she is only three, the roan girl is almost as tall as the Reaper, all long dark legs and wide eyes, lanky and awkward despite small promises of eventual grace. At some point, the trees become sparse and the points of mountains rise in the distance like jagged teeth. With an incredulous gaze, the pale-maned maiden traces the peaks, the crevasses and the white-capped summits, a small smile gathering at the corners of her lips; she is finally home. Home is where the stars glitter over alpine lakes and little white flowers grow in lush meadows, where cleft feet roam over white stone, and lips belonging to horned faces pick at dense mountain grass—home is where her father sits on a throne made of cold, cold stone, presiding over the last true herd of the virtuous, the horned; those who would carry on the proud legacy of their cunning forefathers. 

Split hooves clatter on ice and rock, and her father, who had long slipped into a comfortable, contemplative silence (she had also fallen to the whims of her various musings), slows his pace and turns his face to regard her. Welcome home, he says, gesturing grandly to their beautiful home—a place that, until very recently, had only presided in her dreams and longings. Sentinels stand above them, watchful as always, although instead of being austere and somber, they seem almost glad today, honoring the arrival of their long-lost princess. A smile unfurls slowly on charcoal lips; at first tentative, but soon growing wide and broad. It softens Lothíriel's vivid eyes as they trace the various curves and edges of home, staring greedily at the inviting emerald valley spread below the pair like bird's wings, the tip of each feather a solemn peak. She imagines the adventures of her childhood, all the laughter and childish whims which had once played in her youthful heart. Although she is no longer a child, the flower maiden longs to tear through the meadow once more, the cold mountain air playing in her pale hair.

Deimos turns to his daughter once more, and she studies the sapphire blue of his irises, marvelling at the intensity of their color. I missed you, he says, and the roan girl's smile melts into something gentler, something sweeter. Black ears face backwards and she pushes her nose towards him, yearning to touch the soft velvet of his muzzle with her own, to feel his whiskers tickling the sensitive skin of her face. "I missed you too, Papa," Lothíriel tells him softly, pulling her face back from his own and gazing at him with precious earnesty. Thoughtfulness turns to mirth in the Reaper's eyes, and he bestows the flower queen with a youthful grin, a gesture she cherishes from so many seasons past. When he winks, she laughs—a happy sound spun from grinning lips. For a heartbeat, she stands beside him, relishing the radiance of her father's levity. But it passes, so she tips her face skywards and utters a strange sort of whistle, one which could not be easily replicated by unpracticed lips. 

A red-eyed raven with feathers the color of ash dives from the sky, croaking a greeting to his bonded and her sire before landing on the gentle sweep of her back. He plucks various flowers from Lothíriel's mane, and with nimble feet, fashions a sort of crown from them. Hibiscus, frangipani, azalea and dahlias are all skillfully woven together to form a chain of vivid pinks, purples, reds and whites—all colors fit for a king. Then, the queen of flowers draws it carefully from Thingol's grasp, mindful of crushing the fragile blooms. With one fluid motion, she sweeps the crown over the Lord's ears, just above the black spire of his horn. She steps back to admire the work of raven and girl, and bestows him with a grand smile, a promise of majesty and grandeur. "Every great king deserves a true crown," the maiden says proudly—the flowers sparkle beneath the mountain sun like crown-jewels.

how the rose in your heart you hold
still all the water in your wells won't make it grow

Tiamat the Ocean's Light Posts: 360
Aurora Basin Lady atk: 8 | def: 10 | dam: 3
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.2 :: 6 years HP: 60 | Buff: NOVICE
Nimue :: Common Orca Leviathan :: Boil Reli
Look to love, you may dream—hope is home, and the heart is free.
Beneath the shimmering rays of her mother’s light, the ocean mare basks in the glory and freshness of Birdsong. Spring has always been her favorite season. It is when the earth comes to life, when nature blooms from winter’s rest and sings with promises of new beginnings, and it brings her to life along with it. Rolling around in the flowers and grasses, with cloven hooves dancing in the air, she giggles merrily to herself. It is a magnificent day—she can feel it!—and every fiber of her being feels like it is glowing. Rolling herself onto her feet, Tiamat leaps forward, thick hair billowing against her neck and her horned head high in enthusiasm—bouncing and thriving with a vigor for life.
Skipping over a short rise with her cloven hooves prancing high in her delight, two figures suddenly come into sight, catching her attention as fluted ears prick up inquisitively. The ocean mare recognizes one of them immediately—her leader, the Lord of the Basin—but the young mare at his side is not familiar. With her spirits far too buoyed by the pure brilliance of spring, the blue unicorn dances closer to them, not even considering passing up the opportunity to socialize and (hopefully!) make a new friend on this glorious day. Her gait is lively and her smile is bright beneath Helovia’s sun, the lightness of her step muted by damp grasses.
“Hello!” Her soprano voice chimes like the shells in her hair, leonine tail flicking out behind her in her excitement as she draws to a halt before them. Out of the respect she knows he deserves as her superior, Tiamat turns her attention first to the black stallion, her slender neck arching as she tips her horned brow in a reverent curtsy. “My Lord—always a pleasure to see you,” her happy smile returns to brighten her lips, the enthusiasm of her joy reaching up to illuminate her eyes, which sparkle when she turns to the roaned mare.
A satin muzzle is pressed forward in invitation to exchange breaths between them, nearly out of habit, as is her way of greeting both friend and stranger—ever intimate, ever trusting, and ever innocent. “I don’t believe we’ve met before? My name is Tiamat,” her tone is welcoming, even hopeful—a promise of friendship and camaraderie, a bond of family that she feels is prominent in this mountainous valley. A bond of home.
Lifting her white eyes to rest on the ashen raven that is perched on the mare’s back, Tiamat gives another—smaller, more playful—inclination of her head. “And hello to you as well!” She laughs blithely. Although she has not experienced the profound connection of a companion herself, or has even been around many, she knows enough to understand that they are far greater than mindless pets. Given the current state of her high spirits, how could she possibly ignore the little guy?(—Girl?)
Her smile broadening, the ocean mare glances back to her Lord, only then noticing the glittering crown of flowers adorning his brow. Her eyes light up happily at the sight, and she gasps breathlessly. “Oh my goodness! Lord Deimos, those are so pretty; you must wear flowers more often, they are very becoming of you,” the mare’s voice nearly sings in her enthusiasm, wondrous and admiring. “Did you make it?” She inquires excitedly of the roaned mare, appreciating her decoration of flowers (not unlike the shells and seaweed of the ocean’s daughter). “Oh! Wait here,” and with that she dashes back down the little rise, to where she had been frolicking. There she snatches up a little bouquet of forget me nots and baby’s breath—perfect little additions to Deimos’ crown. “Here—add these too!” She exclaims through the stems, reaching out to them as she approaches again.

image credits | @Deimos @Lothíriel
please tag Tia in all replies!
magic & force are permitted.

Enna Posts: 172
Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4
Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None kels
For moments you simply watch them, your eyes warily focused on the black and blue man you know only for his leadership, and even there it is mostly assumptions made from the few and far between instances that you had spent with him, the lack of discontent that you have noticed within the group of Basiners. Despite promises you had made yourself you had chosen to stay as deep in the folds of obscurity as you could manage, venturing out only when you were needed, too uncertain of your ability to hold your tongue to feel comfortable in the midst of those who could take away everything. Your growing discomfort with the golden lord (your face darkens as you recall him, the eerie calmness that had befallen him when you had cut into his pride, not trusting it for a single minute) had put you on edge with the other two, uncertain of whether it is all a game between them, everyone their pawns, or whether they are truly unaware of the less than forthcoming intentions that you pin to the wolf-lord.

But looking to the girl that accompanies him, lithe and young and lovely, you do not recognize her; do not recognize the lines that tie them together. Suspicion rises in your heart as she whistles, a flash of white drawing your mismatched eyes to the sky as the bird lands on flesh colored between purple and blue. You watch as he weaves together flowers picked from the woman’s hair, deftly intertwining their delicate stems, as the maiden takes his creation and, with fluid motion, places what you now see to be a crown on the Reaper’s masculine head. You laugh from your place beneath the pines as she admires her work, no doubt finding as much humor as you do in someone so utterly unfeminine wearing something so very delicate. It is then that another joins them, her easiness in the midst of the unknown somehow still taking you by surprise.

Her cherub face is smiling, as it is always smiling, even as she darts away as quickly as she came. When she returns she is carrying little blue and white flowers, holding them out for the girl to add to her makeshift crown. It inspires you to forget your self-loathing, swooping up young stems of wintergreen as you make your way to them, slowing as you grow near enough to make your contribution to his crown. You push the flowers through the weave that the ashen bird had made as precisely as you can manage, stepping back when you are certain that they will not fall. Only then do you offer a quiet smile to the spindly girl, one that grows as you look to Tia and begins to fade as your eyes rest on the roan man.


please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death

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

Perhaps, in some essence, in some sway, he was partially reborn – devoid of the harsh intricacies of his namesake, of his invocations, of his withering, crumbling, brooding soul, and given half a chance at peace. He snagged and grasped and clenched at all of it, grateful for the chance to have his daughter back, returned from the barbs, from the nettles, from the haunting inquiries and iniquities stinging him every moment of every day she’d been gone from his side. The Reaper, unrelenting in his devotion, still smiled as she touched him for the briefest of moments, lingering in the fold of familial constancy and faithfulness (because while the world burned and scorched and reminded him of his failures, she was still there, and he’d give up the portions of his rancor just to see her there), and even allowed her the smallest of moments and gestures of flowers laden upon his sword. He might have given the most minute of laughs towards the ivory raven and its nymph, staring at the tiny, regal blossoms and all the memories, the images, the pictures of her came swimming back – so he blinked, imagining sadly, that they too would fall, wither, decay and die, still not strong enough to combat the vicious forces of his presence. The beast, the monster, the ogre, could only be so altered, so persuaded…
So he waited and waited, watching for the first to design a pathway down to the ground, and when none did he arched his brow in utter curiosity, not bothered by the strange picture and image he likely made, too entranced, too beguiled, too allured by the sudden mystery woven over his crown. They should’ve been fragile bulbs of the present, then descended to the afterlife, just as everything else did, like the grass beneath his feet, like the bonds between his long-lost companions, like the twisted, fleeting, blistering chords of his heart – but there they stayed, perennial and enduring. “Why don’t they fall?,” he whispered, nearly inaudible, perplexed and disjointed by the serpentine snags and snarls of this enigma; and he would’ve delved deeper into the labyrinth, had others not soon joined them.
He immediately felt sheepish and foolish. The rejoicing he’d sensed in the cajoling of his daughter ceased abruptly as Tiamat approached: as if some monstrous quality, some intimidating candor had been lost in the wake of petals and dulcet clamor. The Reaper yearned to hide, back away, away, away into the crush of melting snow and promised caves, awaiting some laughter to flood over his expense, some ebullience to be postured by his image, for the ocean femme to sound like the gulls, screeching through the mist – but when all she did was smile, bow, and curtsy, he was at even more of a loss. Unused to kindness, to benevolence, to the arts and foils of tenderness, his mask lay crumpled and broken, all the indifference and nonchalance crawling away and leaving a beast with widened eyes and a flower crown across his brow in its wake. He somehow managed to find his voice, kindling it with pride, with reverence, where his child was concerned. “A pleasure, Tiamat.” Maybe that wasn’t a lie, and maybe he didn’t need to immerse himself into the murk and mire. He didn’t know what that meant. “This is Lothiriel, my daughter.” And then the girl, with a sound of shells and bells, seemed to want to add to his circlet of florets, and he was left speechless again. He’d done nothing to warrant her affection or altruism, and nearly bestowed her with the notion, but one more came – Enna – and the Reaper was as lost as he could be, drowning in the wake of the unknown.
And when she arrived again with more flowers, with more delicacies, with more things for him to ruin and demolish and spear, the broken monster bowed his head, and allowed them their wishes, their dreams, their silly, insipid little instances and triumphs. In the back of his mind, he thought of his father, of friends, of how to make them and how to break them, if this was the beginning of lifted scars or simply a trail off the beaten path, not meant to represent anything other than his shame, his regrets, and his rue. He managed the swiftest of chuckles, hoped it sounded less empty, less hopeless, than he felt. “You are too generous, ladies.” The discomfort plucked and skewed at his heart, at the nefarious, sinister twitches of each pulsing, maddening beat, of the stifled discord and the plunging soulnessness, gathering too much and not enough. To the Time Mender, he bestowed some manner of business, as if he could appeal to her even while being savaged by their whims and resplendence, their light carving too many shapes in his darkened veil. He’d been blinded by their musing, by their brilliance, by their compassion – and had nothing to give them in return. “I require your assistance in a journey to the Edge, Enna, when we have finished adorning my crown.” Then, as if accepting his inevitable fate, he bowed his head once more to the lavished bits and their nearness, permitting them an opportunity to anoint, to consecrate, him with silliness and mirth. 

i'm not here looking for absolution,
because I found myself an old solution

@Enna @Tiamat @Lothíriel

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