the Rift

[OPEN] We Are Children of Blood & Fire

Sunjata Posts: 69
Dragon's Throat Sleuth atk: 4.5 | def: 10 | dam: 6.5
Stallion :: Pegasus :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 66 | Buff: NOVICE
Andikan :: Nile Crocodile :: Scream Skylark

A party was something the blue bird wasn’t the biggest fan of. Back in Dorobo, his family held many great occasions with nearly every member drinking a bit too much and becoming a rambunctious pulse of a gathering. It was something he tried to avoid back in the day, with people he didn’t particularly care for, with drama spreading like wild fire between each mouth, however slurred it may be. Still, the Throat was his home now. It was something he’d have to do at least at some point. Might as well start early. As he approached, there were quite a few already gathered, offering a swift dip of his head in greeting to those he knew, he made his way to the side for a few moments to simply observe.

He first noticed Ampere, as easily as it was. His eyes always wandered to the electric blue mare for one reason or another. Then, they shifted to Syrena, a mare he had spent a few moments in the water with as well. Then finally around to all of the children that inhabited the desert. It was surprising for him to see how many foals ran around the place. Is that all the members here did? Not that Sunjata would complain, to be honest, but he preferred the idea without ties, without his seed spreading and creating even more lives.

After a few moments, he tucked his wings tightly to his side and decided to join the gathering, waiting patiently to see what kind of event this might turn into.


you might not be interested in war
— but war is interested in you.
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Force/Magic permitted so long as it doesn't permanently harm him.
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Mihtal Posts: 26
Dragon's Throat Mare atk: 5.5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 3.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.0 :: 8 years HP: 56.0 | Buff: Novice
We build it up, we tear it down
We leave our pieces on the ground
I don’t feel welcome here.

I feel uncomfortable.
Even though the fine red sands of the desert, and the packed dry earth, are similar to all I have ever known, it is not comforting. (Perhaps it is because of that reason, that it is all I have ever known, and I can never seem to outrun a past of horror that is hell-bent on haunting me, that I remain in a haze of misery and despair). Of course, as much as I would like (try) to hold blame and grudges against the others who live here, I know in my heart that I cannot. My isolation is by no one’s doing other than my own.

I sequester myself—

(Eagerly, desperately, and stubbornly—) I shut myself away from the rest of the world.
It is all that I know how to do.

(And, sometimes, I wonder if I even want that to change.)

With lips sealed and my heart carefully locked up, I watch as the herd’s party unfolds. Stubbornly (foolishly) I remain in the comfort of the shadows, just outside the firelight and behind those who worship the God of the Sun. They are laughing, drinking, and seem to be enjoying themselves. There is a small part of me, somewhere deep and private, that nearly urges me to join them—but the thought is buried beneath years of abuse and doubt before it can even register properly within my mind.

Instead I lean my weight backwards, flicking the dusty length of my tail (the ends of which don’t even make it off the sands), and simply settle for the familiarity of my silence and isolation.

notes; She's finally here, kind of ;-;

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magic & force are permitted.

Melita Posts: 35
Dragon's Throat Filly
Filly :: Hybrid :: 16 :: Newborn - Birdsong
Sila :: Plain Zephyr :: Wakiya Heather
Melita could be perceptive when she yearned to be, when a thousand things didn’t absorb her mind, when her attention wasn’t split between the clouds, the earth, the water, or the air. So she watched as Iskra seemed ruffled, anxious, and perturbed within the gathering, shifting her attention from the strange drink with its enticing fragrance, and back to the older boy. Her brows furrowed, knitted together, concern lacing its way through her heart and mind, pondered how he’d become so flustered, because she’d always seen him as bright, reminding her of the sky, always ablaze in golds and blues. The little, lithe girl whispered, attempted to minimize the attention (for once in her life) she placed, gilded eyes focused and centered entirely on the paragon. “Are you okay?” Then he murmured, a very hushed tone, about the drink, how she should be careful (and what did that mean, because no one had ever mentioned treading lightly, cautiously, warily, towards her before), and not to take too much (when that was all she ever did, snag and grasp, hold and clench). Her eyes were drawn back to the liquid and its intriguing allure, gaze snapping along and watching how the rest of the adults were altered from its intoxicating bellows, wondering how to heed his warning and still dive right into the irresistible urge; taking one more plunge she didn’t understand or comprehend. “Just a little then,” she agreed, lowering her tiny maw, hovering over the refreshment, and sliding her tongue to absorb, then swallow, a few miniscule morsels. The taste was incredibly odd to her, nothing like water, a little bitter, a little rancorous, once the honeysuckle sweetness was swindled from her senses. Her lips drew back in a fine line, contemplating whether she’d enjoyed it and wanted some more, or if it was enough – because then her tiny little frame, never exposed to alcohol, processed it with aplomb, and her mind felt clouded, hazy, stupefied. It rattled her, like she was up in the atmosphere and had no way of coming down. Was this what Iskra meant about change? “Hm,” she considered, then moved to maneuver a little, always in motion, always in action, but the ground seemed difficult to manage, and she stuck one hoof out to the side like a drunken sailor, knees wobbly and shaking. “I feel dizzy,” was her final conclusion, swaying a little in the breeze, but not taking any more of the proffered intoxication.

let me live that fantasy
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