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these tornadoes are for you; hush, my sweet | wendla
Topic Started: Jul 13 2014, 10:40 PM (257 Views)
alittlelamb
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i'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours.
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x


To say she's on edge is, well, a bit of an understatement.

If you ask her once if she's nervous, she'll up-and-down deny it. Ask her again and she'll hit you, but truth be told: Yes, Wendla is the tiniest bit nervous. Today is something of a turning point, a fresh page free of any marks; and while it might not determine her whole future, it will decide most of it and that's a harrowing concept to wrap a mind around. Not to mention she has virtually no control over how any of this unfolds -- all she can do, really, is react. Such is the plight of a female, perpetually doomed to walk the globe under the boats of males, fumbling around trying to discern between what's a worm and what's a lure, constantly feeling like a complicated metaphor.

Her movement is uncharacteristically jerky, exactly as loud and vibrant as it is usually is smooth and unobtrusive. Some would say it's a product of nerves, but some would be wrong, because Wendla knows what she's doing. You see, her idea is that, if she calls attention to herself, more stallions will take notice and approach, therefore widening her options. It's got a high rate of backfiring but, then again, standing around mumbling songs about princes doesn't seem like a very good approach either.

She crashes through the brambles at the forest's edge and breaks out into the hazy light of early morning. Wendla pauses a moment, assesses, then starts forward again towards a small tree just a little ways out into the meadow. Out in the open, easily visible, but not entirely vulnerable. The soft light reflects off the warm red-brown of her body, the wind catching at her dark mane and twisting it over her face. She comes to a rest underneath the tree, because while the shade isn't necessary so early in the day, there's no telling how long she'll have to be here.

please don't go, i'll eat you whole
(i love you so, i love you so)
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between the click of the lock,
and the start of the dream.

| previously rhythm/riddikulus |
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`d e p p
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I think everybody's nuts.
[ DISCLAIMER :: You must listen to his voice before you read!<3 ]

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source.

TYRANT'S VOICE
_____________________________________________________________________________ T Y R A N T
Your worst dream, that's my idea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Perhaps it is his hungry, unquenchable appetite, or perhaps it is the relatively decent
mood that has strangely come upon him recently. Either way, Tyrant finds himself here,
in the land of the fraught and the fragile—a place he tries to not frequent often. Times
have been good for him these last few weeks. Wheels finally set in motion, the clocks
ticking and the ever-starved fingers of time pulling hell closer and closer—he can taste
the blood on his barbed tongue, exciting him in a way few other things can.

With the vermin already scoured and his interest waning, the black beast has tucked
himself in a small gathering of trees, watching and hating them from his beloved
darkness. It is the careless crashing of the brushwood that awakens the monster from
his peace (or what “peace” he can find in this place), drawing him from his shadowy
hole with a silent snarl curling his oily lips. Devilish eyes raze through the trees, soon
fixing on a flash of auburn against the shadows.

It is a mare—shoving herself through the thin wood. She does not gallivant like the
others, flashing herself like a trophy above the lusty mouths of stallions. No, instead
she comes parading, traipsing rather clumsily through the underbrush with her mind
very much set on a mission, striding with purposeful steps that betray her small
stature and rather plain body.

The shadowy beast rather enjoys her show, his calloused black lips twisting into a
vile grin that lasts only for a moment. Wild dark eyes consider her, stripping flesh
from bone as he lurks in his writhing shadows, swallowed by their hungry fingers
that eagerly stroke his angular frame. The little bay mare seems to set herself on a
pedestal, tapered nose turned up as her brown eyes search her surroundings,
casting a silent dare to the potential suitors who swarm these desperate borders.
Tyrant shifts his weight, a lean foreleg extending as his devilish sneer deepens—
he quite enjoys the looks of this one. She should be fun, no? He does love a good
game, after all.

Seeing no need to keep her waiting, the black beast emerges from his dark umbrage,
descending from his grisly throne of fauna and shadows that skitter away like rats
beneath his hooves. He slithers towards the mare, the macabre secrets of his black
eyes scouring her behind his long gnarled forelock, a sickening leer resting too
comfortably against his ghastly features.

“You put on quite a show,” he taunts her as he draws to a halt, his large body coiling
over her like a poised viper, “Is there more?” The beast’s deep voice grates against
the cool spring air as it slips like venom from his barbed tongue, reaching out to harass
the bay mare as he fixes her with his wild dark eyes, goading her to release the little
black tongue that must lie behind her dark lips. “My name is Tyrant, starlet,” the fierce
stallion offers her a wily grin, though it is fleeting and is soon consumed by the cruelty
that is frequently harbored in his savage figure.

The length of his snarled tail flicks once, curling around his hocks before falling to rest
again. The black beast waits, one narrow ear tilted mildly towards her, though there is
a burning in his feral gaze that matches the barbarity of him—screaming of poisonous
danger and bloody horrors. Come, play with me, he jeers at her, eager for her shrewd
games to begin.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
‘Let's go back to war and violence, I'm so bored with peace and silence... Nights of evil, filled with fear —
YOUR WORST DREAM, THAT'S MY IDEA.’


thoroughbred (hybrid) stallion . argon x noeko . eleven years old . black with black eyes . dark . 16.3hh

Remember...if you feel glum, just shake your bum!
#EpicStrut

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paper faces on parade;
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alittlelamb
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i'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours.
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x


She's humming a little under her breath, despite herself. It's one of the ones about the princess and her unlikely rescuer, but none of the verses ever say exactly what she's being rescued from. Is it this? As a child she would have imagined something more sinister, grotesque creatures in the dark that whispers nothings sweeter than the smell of flowers before they pounce. But now Wendla is not so sure that it isn't just this, that the princess was simply being freed from this mundane tradition by a young stallion too charming to be true. She can't help but wander what happened to her after the last note of the melody. The maiden fair, with her rich yellow hair, told him she would follow him here and there and everywhere. Maybe he turned out worse than the whisperers in the night.

The soft tones of her voice trail off into the breeze as slight sounds catch her attention. Her ears twitch towards the hoofsteps, tea-colored eyes following. It's a moment before she sees him, before the dark hue of his body becomes distinguishable from the shadows that surround it, and then -- oh, well then. Isn't that interesting? Is this one of her shadowy murmurers of old, or a true rescuer? Or perhaps he was both, or neither. He certainly moved like something closer to a specter than a true mortal, at least.

He doesn't greet her so much as jeer at her, at the unnaturally rough gait she had picked up. The stranger stands close to her, the inky black of him like to drip off onto her skin if he moved too suddenly -- but she doesn't move away. Wendla's low on social courtesies as it is, and never had much of a sense of personal space. Tyrant introduces himself, and she settles her weight so her small body is angled towards him. He is well and above her height, intimidating in stature and countenance, but this is only something she observes. A childhood on the outskirts lets one learn to watch, and feel nothing.

"There's always more, sweetling," she coos -- not quite a mockery of his taunt, but the intent is nestled there beneath the pleasantry -- "if you know how to coax it out." Tyrant's smile is nothing short of haunting, and she's invariably convinced that this stallion is in fact beyond this life. But she supposes something like that would be kept a secret, so she doesn't ask, just looks him over with a shrewd eye on the off chance that his edges are hazy or wispy. "Mine is Wendla. It's a pleasure to meet someone who's dead, Tyrant." Oops. Her mother always told her she had a loose tongue.

please don't go, i'll eat you whole
(i love you so, i love you so)
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between the click of the lock,
and the start of the dream.

| previously rhythm/riddikulus |
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devotchka
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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Lines © skater4life509.

WASP
' if i had a heart i could love you, if i had a voice i would sing '
______________________________________________________________________________________


THE young stallion is eager to return to the common grounds, now the snow has lifted from the lower lying grounds and the warmer temperatures are luring all the wenches out of their hiding holes, desperate in their heat. The delicate, papery skin that forms his nostrils flare and die down again like an open flame, breathing in the various scents that scatter across the breeze, both fresh and old. It is still quiet here, but after his successes last time he ventured here, Wasp is confident. He has acquired Requiem from this place, a very promising mare, and if it weren’t for the lure of new meat here, he would be chasing after her through his mountains now she has ripened. Upon returning home with his goods in tow last winter, he also had stumbled across a mare who in turn had ventured a little too hastily into his land, and now she will remain there for good.

SHE is the reason why the grullo stallion has stayed so long at home, why he didn’t turn on his haunches the moment he saw the Friesian settle and head back to the homeless. Not that he is out to collect mares on a whim, but the first crows will always find the worms. Wasp will stay true to his word. The earth is tired of the scum that crawls on it, and he intends to do something with his life before he curls up and dies. His new alliance with Martyr is a promising start, and he hopes the blue roan overo will come through on his promise and send his sister to him. That would take him up to three mares, and any stallion with a functioning brain knows it is the herd that drives the stallion. No, Wasp is anxious that Bracken stays, he did not want her running away the second his back was turned. She is due with child and if it is a filly, this could be a useful gain for the grullo. If it is a colt, he will kill it or run the thorn out of his land. Either way, no son of another stallion’s will feed off his wealth.

THE slate coloured stallion stands firm, eyes sweeping over the terrain in front of him. The early morning air is fresh and his breath unfurls from ajar jaws like the creatures that used to terrify the skies, long before the grullo was born. Like the black rival he too notices the conundrum in the trees and the flash of bay as the little mare struggles against the timber. Ochre eyes watch her pert hindquarters tense, set above neat dark hocks as the other stallion moves towards her, slithering like a snake. Deciding this is his cue, Wasp makes his way towards the pair. His movements are fluid but in a different way, his athletic body spread low towards the ground in a hunting movement. He is the Wolf, that cracks the Snake in his jaws, if the ebony beast does not get the first bite.

HE stands behind the mare, catching the remnants of her fiery conversation with the unknown male and at her ending remark, the grullo chuckles, the sound long and low. ‘How poetic.’ His voice, also deep, alerts her of his presence, should she have been foolish to not notice him. Tawny eyes look beyond her bay countenance to the stallion behind her, weighing up his opponent, before his thoughts and desires take him back to Wendla. ‘I’m Wasp.’ He adds, concluding this was enough of an introduction. He will never been any good with words.


theme
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____________________________________________
in these cages we call walls ~
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`d e p p
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I think everybody's nuts.
Posted Image
source.

TYRANT'S VOICE
_____________________________________________________________________________ T Y R A N T
Your worst dream, that's my idea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The little brown starlet does not shrink back from his approach like the others, drawing
a sneer from the barbaric grin that twists his calloused lips. He is used to these short
games, a test of wits that the black beast has long-since honed well—this desolate land
is rotted with them, coated with the lies and desperations of the needy. Still, he does
not take this little starlet for such dull antics.

She lights her fire as she mocks him (however mild it is, the dark beast can pick up a
jive when it is there), licking her lips with her little black tongue and matching his wild
gaze with her beady brown eyes.

Tyrant’s ugly grin deepens, coiling into something poisonously delicious as he extends
his bony head down to her, barbed tongue snapping into the cool spring air. “Are you
offering, starlet?”
He hums, cooing to her like the devil would of blood and death. The
venom drips thick as his derision slips like a cat through the night, coated in the rough
tones of his voice and garnished with the monster’s vicious lies.

She continues, offering a name too big for her small stature when she goads the black
beast further, inadvertently dangling herself like a rat before the hunter’s hungry eyes.
Oily black lips soon fall from their vile grin, drawn into a dark chuckle that leaks slowly
from his throat, the sound starved of brightness as it leeches after her like his writhing
shadows. When the dreadful smile returns to Tyrant's chapped lips, it is cold and wily.
“The pleasure is all mine, Wendla,” his wicked voice and dark bearing betray his taunting
words, the shrewd black grin twisting with the horrible secrets that are kept there.

With his deathly leer lingering, the beast’s cruel gaze trails from the petite brown starlet
to the brown-cast maggot that slinks behind her. Tyrant does not hide his savage brutality,
though there is little acknowledgement in the other stallion’s direction; it is tempting to
tear the beating flesh from his throat right there, but the coiled serpent waits for his strike.
No need to trouble himself if Wendla proves unsuitable, after all (though she has shown
amusing thus far, and the greedy monster does enjoy such witty antics).

Flicking the knotted length of his tail, the black stallion bears himself well, rotted viciously
with the hellfire and demons that have long-since putrefied his body and soul. For now, he
waits silently, held in the thrashing fingers of his deathly shadows.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
‘Let's go back to war and violence, I'm so bored with peace and silence... Nights of evil, filled with fear —
YOUR WORST DREAM, THAT'S MY IDEA.’


thoroughbred (hybrid) stallion . argon x noeko . eleven years old . black with black eyes . dark . 16.3hh

Remember...if you feel glum, just shake your bum!
#EpicStrut

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paper faces on parade;
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