04-18-18March OTM Voting is up, go vote!

03-31-18 ★ We've added a OOC Account field in Account Approval area where you must link your OOC Account's URL from now on. This has been confusing some when they join so hopefully this helps!

03-30-18 ★ A wild update has been posted! (Read more)

03-20-18 ★ Prince Hénrie has arrived. Will he make a big impression on the herds, or will they be the ones making the impression on him? (Read More)

       



  Summer, Year 3    Leviticus Era
The Red Wastes now has a sub-forum of its own! All Lyrus members can post there but outsiders beware!
The training battle between Gotham City and Caelian has been decided on a winner!
Join Lord Kyrian in celebrating springfires on the shores of Satin Beach!
Congratulations to Kyrian, new Lord of Arae!
Shakaya is the new Carinae Queen!
The Crucis king, Gotham City, is holding a ball to celebrate his rise to the throne, and invited all herds to participate!


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Private  She is Sown in Adoration, Raised by Glory
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 Adult, 7 yrs  Stallion
 16.2 hh  2400 lbs
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Posted on Nov 11 2017, 9:40 PM. (Edited: Nov 12 2017, 11:45 PM by Beaufort. Edit Reason: table )
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#1

Thread contains mild gore.



He swept in like a mountain that had learned to run - slow and lumbering in comparison to any lighter horse, but swifter than he could recall running in a very long time. It took him no more than a moment to grab Amapola by the mane and haul her onto his back. He rolled his shoulders under her heavy frame and lumbered off as rapidly as he dared, down the grassy slope, out of the Fields. Thank the gods that Amapola’s challenger did not follow to finish the job. He could have, easily, for Beaufort was not a fighter either.

Amapola was light enough to be carried, but heavy enough that he couldn’t carry her far. She’d inherited her mother’s sprightliness, to some degree, but he was her father too. It didn’t take long to exhaust even him, carrying her dead weight. He carried her as far as the border to the Creation Pool, recognizing the strange and wildly grown flora. If her challenger had not followed Beaufort’s rolling lumber, it was unlikely he planned to. With some measure of relief, Beaufort let Amapola pitch off his back and loll against a tree. She landed with a heavy thud.

He had to take a moment to breathe. That had not been easy, not at the pace he’d set and at her weight. When had she gotten so heavy? Had it been a year, even, since she was a tiny filly resting at her dam’s belly, so young that chasing butterflies would tire her out?

It was hard to look at her now. She had made a fine princess, so long as one expected a lot of snot, but then only a prancing figurehead of a Queen. The dynamic with Ezera had been good for her, but then Ezera had left and left prancing Amapola on her own… and now she lay bleeding and broken, banished from the only home she had left.

What would Talla have done?

Beaufort shook his head, a brisk and snapping motion to himself. He dipped his head and looked over her wounds, magic flowing from every gentle brush of his snout across her, and the bleeding lessened. Then, he stepped away into the trees.
nothing survives the eye of the storm so i'll stay on the water-kissed beaches and wait


Rogue

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Posted on Nov 11 2017, 9:46 PM. (Edited: Nov 11 2017, 9:50 PM by Amapola.)
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#2

It was agony that toppled her, adrenaline alone not enough to hold her upright. She was inexperienced - not truly aware of her body, her limits. She had pushed herself upright, foolishly, instead of holding her ground. Perhaps it was the drama of it that had lured her to try matching her opponent in his easy rear, the beautifully poetic vision of two horses striving against each other in the rain.

Her hind legs were uninjured, her spine just fine, but the grievous and multitude wounds to her shoulders and neck were too much for what she demanded of her body. It was a strange, bizarre experience. Internally she howled in unspoken rage, bellowing at herself to get up, to fight, to grind the intruder into bloody scraps, even as her vision went black and she could no longer even see him, even as her body collapsed to the earth.

She dragged her eyes back open, damning their disobedient slowness. Veins in her bleeding neck ticked as she tried to move. The pain was crippling, blinding - she rapidly let her head fall again, overcome. But she would not fall. She wouldn’t she wouldn’t

She surged, heaved, demanded with all the strength left in her, and her limbs and muscles wildly shuddered and flailed on the grass. Her hooves caught, her body rose a few inches, and then she slammed down as her left shoulder gave out under her. Trapped now on her belly as her legs quivered with exhaustion, she offered a strangled noise - a desperate, agonized whine that was trying so very hard to be a growl.

Her eyes flicked around the clearing, making no sense of the things she saw - shadows, trees? The noises around her - not the wild pattering of rain but some odd more steadied dripping, as if she was under trees, but there weren’t any trees. She had to get up. She had to fight. She could still smell the foul stench of the usurper. She did not realize that the stench rose only faintly from her own coat. She had to get up. She would not die here. She refused. Her lungs contracted. A feral gurgle she didn't hear dripped out of her mouth. She strained upwards towards the heavens while her body begged for the ground.


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Posted on Nov 17 2017, 6:29 PM.
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#3


It took long moments of moving through the thick foliage, carefully scanning this way and that, before he found what he was looking for. When he found it, the prize was easy to collect - it helped that the thing didn’t see him coming, or think him much of a threat - him, a fat, slow, herbivore.

He moved back through the verdant green of the Creation Pool - where his short height served to rob him of all intimidation, it also made the laden branches of this overgrown, fertile jungle easier to avoid. It took him precious time to find his way back to where he'd left his daughter, and when he did, she was heaving and struggling against the ground and gravity, seeming delirious.

The black stallion dropped the thing he'd gone to collect on the ground for a moment and went to Amapola. "Amapola!" he said, harshly, firmly. He pushed against her struggling neck with his nose and repeated her name until she slowed and seemed to return to her senses.

"Amapola, you're injured," he said. "Don't move. Eat." He reached back for the thing he'd brought for her, gripping it by the ears and dragging it within easy reach of her injured head. The rabbit had died from a crushing blow to the neck, such that it had not even struggled or seized. It was plump, no doubt from a long and plentiful summer, and Beaufort had not bothered to clean away the short fur. Speed mattered more than quality, given the beating Amapola had taken. It was the way of his birthplace. He had seen the results. He had felt them himself.

Beaufort did not bother to convince or console. He knew, with all the certainly of experience, that Amapola would not require such trifles, given the severity of her wounds. He was also very certain that even given her mud-blooded heritage, she would have little trouble digesting the morsel if that ability had passed down to her. He had lived long enough, seen enough, to know these things, even though he had hoped that Elysium was peaceful enough and Amapola sensible enough not to need that knowledge. He had seen it in action, in the cold grips of winter. It was not a pretty thing.

He moved back to her side again, and did his best to work his healing magic on her wounds. The magic was weak, not a gift that could heal the severe injuries she had sustained, but it served to stop the bleeding and align some of the tears that had gone all the way down into muscle. These would scar, certainly. He was no healer... he wasn't sure if she would permanently limp. He could only hope not.

nothing survives the eye of the storm so i'll stay on the water-kissed beaches and wait


Rogue

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 Adult, 4 yrs  Mare
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Posted on Nov 25 2017, 3:30 PM.
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#4

She was jarred into reality by the sharp snap of her name, repeated over and over. She blinked - that shouldn't... that wasn't a sound she would hear in the fight. There was no sound of a charging stallion come to steal her crown, no sound of bellowing and thunder. The verdant jungle that lay before her eyes was not the clear and sweet grasses of her kingdom. All was quiet, and still. Too still. She turned still too, and then her father nudged a tiny dead creature in front of her, and told her to eat.

At first her mind did not connect Beaufort's brusque command with the limp body. It did not make sense. She had never eaten meat before, and never seen her father eat meat either. She stared, blankly, wondering what this limp fleshy thing could have to do with eating. And then...

She had not smelled meat before. She rarely saw animals that were not horses, and of those none had been dead. She had never known, or cared, what blood smelled like, or meat. It had not truly registered, in the battle with Valor - though the scent of blood excited her, it had not felt like this. Something was stirring in her, some ill-gotten instinct passed down through blood and bone, irritated by the wounds that seared her nerves with fiery pain. Though father was touching magic to them, making them hurt less, bleed less - the instinct still writhed. Diluted, perhaps. Not very strong - a curiosity. Yes - not a need, not a dire desire, but just... a want. A want to know.

Amapola slowly reached out and took the rabbit by the scruff. The sensation of fur on her tongue was alien and unpleasant, but the scent grew stronger - the scent of rabbit flesh, now very close, very easy to detect. The red-breasted mare flared her nostrils, contemplating this new smell, before suddenly opening her jaw and crunching down on a delicate leg.

The first bite was almost pure autonomous instinct, and the bites that followed it followed of their own accord - though Amapola didn't mind. Her teeth ripped through fur and skin and brought up blood, and then she found herself devouring it. It was delicious. Grass, even the sweet candy grasses of the Viridian Fields or the salted glazed ones of the Beach once upon a memory - they were nothing like the flesh she eagerly ripped into and shredded in her teeth. A few bones cracked and sent raw shards into the mix - Amapola continued to chew. She was her father's daughter. Her jaw was strong - less so than his, which could have devoured the toughest and largest chunks of bone were the need as great. But rabbit bones - little crackling rabbit bones, were no match for her teeth.

Part of her was horrified - a sensation that was fed by her utter inability to stop. She was in pain, she was direly injured, and she was exhausted so that her injured neck started to tremble just holding up her head to eat. All these things only seemed to make the meat taste better - raw and fresh and bloody. Delicious. Incredible. Only the fur was disgusting about it, and the bones while edible were not as good as the meat. She moved her head, lifting a foreleg to pin down the rabbit by its pelt for leverage, and continued deliriously tearing the meat free from the carcass.

It was small, and gone too soon. Amapola continued to nibble at the ligaments and bite the bones until they cracked, until finally the urge, the instinct, was satisfied that there was not one single morsel left to glean from the stripped body. The bones lay scattered and broken, some tossed aside in Amapola's efforts to get at the succulent meat. The pelt lay in pieces and chunks, nasty bits of hair that she'd chewed the meat from, or spat back out. Amapola lifted her head, tearing her eyes from it, licking bloodied lips and swallowing the last chewy bit of ligament.

"How?" was all she could muster, for a moment. Her head had stopped trembling. Already she felt stronger - not full, but far fuller than she thought she'd be eating only the same portion of grass.

And then it suddenly hit her again, the distraction of a meal gone, and with her thoughts given new clarity she realized just how terribly wrong it was that she was here, alone, with only father, in a strange place that was not her kingdom. She surged upwards, ignoring the pain that immediately began shrieking again from her shoulder and her legs and her neck. No. No! Where were they? Why were they here?

"Where are we?!" she cried. Her voice grew high and reedy and desperate. No - maybe father had brought her here to save face. Yes! They were just resting here a while to heal her, so that she could present herself well to the herd. It wouldn't do to show herself all bloody and stumbling. It was just to rest. Her herd was fine. Her crown was intact. Somewhat calmer, she stopped struggling so much, and lay down again, though her head remained painfully perked. "Why are we here, father?" she asked. Far more delicately. It was fine. There was no cause for such... such manic alarm. Of course.


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 Adult, 7 yrs  Stallion
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Posted on Nov 25 2017, 4:27 PM. (Edited: Nov 27 2017, 1:08 PM by Beaufort.)
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#5


His assumption was correct, though the realization was bittersweet. Amapola would recover from these horrific injuries, but now she'd always know the taste of flesh. It was a very functional thing, and Beaufort felt no sorrow about it of his own accord... but he thought that Talla would have been distressed to see her child become a hunter and a flesh-eater. It was a trait he'd learned to keep on the down-low, and luckily, he rarely had cause to use it. Fights did not come easily in Elysium.

Amapola had no trouble eating the rabbit. It was messy, but Beaufort was unperturbed... he'd seen worse. Far worse. He continued to push his magic into her wounds, devoting every ounce of the healing power to trying to close and minimize them. The power was not very strong. The most minor of the wounds, he kept from bleeding. The major ones he couldn't do much for, but every little ounce of power would help, and he gave all he had.

The combination of a meal and some desperately needed healing made Amapola already look much better. Less delirious and absent. That sight had disturbed him, though he had tried to look past it. To see his daughter drooling and snapping like a dying dog... even he had been disturbed. Imagining how distraught Talla would have been made the sensation worse.

When Amapola finished her meal, Beaufort had already drained himself of all the meager healing power he possessed. Amapola no longer pooled blood where she lay, and the worst of it was dried. To her question, Beaufort provided an immediate answer. "You are my descendent," he explained. "A full quarter of your blood is brought from the land of Elsaron... a place far distant from Elysium, may it never wander closer." Theatrical, perhaps, but it was his earnest wish. Elysium was not the place for his birth herd to roam. "Those lands were not as plentiful as Elysium, and the horses not so generous. In times of scarcity and strife, when vegetation was scoured away by winter or drought or blight, the herd had learned to hunt flesh. It is a birthright. Grasses and flora are where we find the best meals, the most healthy in the long-term. In strife, in times of need, after battle; meat sustains us better and more rapidly."

The denial of this birthright was a purely personal preference, brought on firstly by his preference for grass and secondly by his experience with the horrified reactions of many other horses he'd met on his travels. It was something he'd made peace with personally a long time ago...

His reminiscing was interrupting as Amapola suddenly panicked again. She almost rose fully from the ground, with her injuries reduced from dire to merely awful, but Beaufort did not want her to get up and strain herself. "Amapola, lie down," he implored. "You are still injured..."

She seemed to grow calmer at his words, and her next question was much calmer. Rational, again. Relieved, Beaufort began to explain without hesitation. "You lost," he said. "You fell unconscious from your wounds. Valor has no doubt claimed the Fields. You could never be expected to stand against a warrior with so little training. It would have been wiser to have Moonfire or another soldier fight on your behalf..."

He trailed away, stymied by her silence. For her, especially, that was strange. She seemed very still. The pause stretched on, until Beaufort finally asked, uncertainly:

"Amapo—

nothing survives the eye of the storm so i'll stay on the water-kissed beaches and wait


Rogue

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 Adult, 4 yrs  Mare
 17.1 hh  1800 lbs
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Posted on Nov 26 2017, 1:20 AM. (Edited: Nov 26 2017, 1:39 PM by Amapola.)
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#6

The meat coated her tongue in a heady mixture that was foreign and divine, but gone all too soon. She licked her lips clean as father explained, giving full answer to her question as he always had. Amapola never had to wait to hear her answers. It was vaguely interesting, she supposed - but more than the history, she valued this new information. Meat, for strength? Why hadn't he told her before? If it was her birthright, like the crown, she should have been told.

But as the taste faded from her mouth, and father moved to her second and third questions, Amapola grew very still. Gone was the pervading panic - she was demure and restful as she lay silently on the grass and heard those first two words echo through her skull. The rest of those reasonable, level-toned words became so much background noise - her expression blanked. Her senses grew numb. The words replayed in her skull, and Amapola was frozen in disbelief.

Lost.

She had no thoughts but that single horrifying phrase. She had fought against that phrase, strove to guard against it from the day she earned her crown. Her coveted crown was the sum total of all her thoughts - all goals were merely steps to finalize her throne. It was her birthright. She was made for it. She was blessed by the gods.

She had no words to express what it was that she felt, and that feeling grew as she lay frozen, billowing up and flooding her breast with the sensation of - of -

Her father drifted downwards a little, asking some triviality of her, and Amapola howled.

She surged upwards, damning her wounds and the weakness that lingered in her shoulder and her knees. She punched her hooves into the earth, demanding purchase, refusing to crumple to the floor no matter how it strained her. Her voice rolled from her throat with a hellish force, infused with such power and rage that it seemed no longer equine, no longer hers. The black marks strewn on her back blurred and distorted, before growing like some inverted fire.

"No!" she screeched. There was nothing but her rage. Something moved before her and she lunged for it; her teeth split flesh and her tongue caught droplets of blood. "It's mine!" She lunged again but found nothing but air and fabric pulling at her jaws. Blackness consumed her body until a writhing shadow stood in her place, with eyes red as blood and glowing with power. Jaws of fog spat out whatever they had caught. The world was nothing but a haze of putrid green and whipping shadows to her - mocking her, mocking how she had been made to flee her own kingdom.

"DAMN HIM!" she bellowed. Horns of smoke finished the demon's face - not a horse, but a black spectre, drained of all color, writhing and billowing with fury. Even the voice was unrecognizable. She knew nothing but rage she could not express, pain she could not stand.

It was his fault. That criminal stallion, to steal what was hers! Even now, who knew what atrocities he was committing to her kingdom, the last vestige of her home and the final sanctuary of her people? The goddess who had blessed her should never have accepted a barbarian. He was a blight on this earth, she knew. Curse him, curse him! She was going to kill him! She was going to fucking eat him!

The enraged shadow lifted a distorted head towards the sky, where a gap in the trees showed the dark heavens far above. The shadow was nothing but a clinging darkness and a set of teeth opened wide. Searing crimson slits locked upon a tiny star that dared to show itself through the draining stormclouds.

"DAMN YOU, TRAITOR!"




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