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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
The blue pill, or the red pill?
Open Halyven 
Currently championing:

The weather had turned quite unexpectedly, overnight in fact, and Noah quickly realised that their nightmarish new abode was far from average. Torrential rain, endless, relentless, unimaginable, ceased as though heavens tap had been suddenly plugged and without reason or logic the puddles beneath their hooves began to freeze, frost glittered across every available surface and the air grew so bitingly cold that he could feel his bones rattling beneath his sleek, summery hide. The coastal wind buffeting the island, the lush masterpiece they had discovered after venturing across the sea, had only amplified the effect of the ambitious, gnawing winter, and the eagle had insisted he and the dove return to the mainland—inland—where perhaps the ice had not fastened so fiercely its grip.

Also, there they might have a greater chance of locating both stray bond-mates.

Of course, Noah’s very best intentions had not played out as predictably as anticipated. Through the course of the day (if of course those queerly lit, freezing hours could be called that), he had guided their path through the rainforest somewhat familiar; what should have been an uneventful, progressive expedition became a gut-wrenching lesson in survival. They discovered screaming flora as hooves brushed unassumingly against the slippery face of mossed rockery and fled from a monstrous reptilian hunter whose swiftness—tail, wings and razor-blade scales—defied belief. As it were, the exasperated stallion began to wonder whether their deaths would have been more peaceful, freezing.

As the evening descended around them, a curtain of equally uncomfortable shadow shrugged too tightly around his shoulders, the eagle was relieved to find that the giant timber was thinning at last. What had felt increasingly like an impossible labyrinth of foliage and frights, had become a growing glade with space and circulation, air—albeit, so cold a long inhale burned his throat—and Noah turned to his lover with a meek, hopeful smile igniting through an otherwise strained expression. “Which way do you prefer, sweet?” he asked gently, feeling a little liberated and ever willing anyway, to accommodate the stunning creature’s preference; his bright aquamarine gaze swam adoringly through the bicoloured glow of her own, falling, of course, to the softer sister, whose look of vulnerability seemed always to summon forth his stalwart masculinity.

There was a downward slope from their position and it allowed fair vantage to the regions beyond. To the West, the shadowy impression of the portal which had unceremoniously spat them into this hell loomed ominously like storm-clouds on the horizon; a wild shiver ricocheted down the length of his spine as he turned to note the various opportunities ahead. There was a part of him that silently begged her attention to ignore that option. Noah’s eyes shifted North, tracing the vague outline of unnaturally sharp, tall peaks before the darkness of night engulfed them entirely and when he glanced East, there was less to behold still. A heavy sigh erupted from slit nostrils. It seemed whatever direction they chose would deliver them in to more unknown. Unless they spent the night atop this poll and reassessed their situation in the light of new day—

A bone-chilling howl split the pleasant enough tranquility around them.  


@Nora first/only? not sure. Starts on the northernmost fringe of rainforest cliffs.
Currently championing:
There weren't accurate words to describe the cruel, horrible finality of this treacherous, hellish place.

Our recent adventures had been frightening, often treacherous in regards to unpredictable weather and companionship, but this…this was…

Stinging, lighting quick missiles of pain are launched erratically down the slender length of all four legs. The weapon which plagues us is savage, merciless, emotionless. An unseen force, a furious gale in constant, erratic motion; it continuously slams those icy, steel coated knuckles into my thinning body with inhumane severity…it drums and rattles within these bones and aching muscles. Pale, blue tinted lips steady their line against the biting air and rearward daggers seize to prevent chatter…tired, sunken lines run the length of my expression, proving that our wayward exploration/travel had begun to erode my psychological and physical stamina.

Just when I’d (we’d) unwillingly grown accustomed to the constant dredge - the absence of sunlight and humid, miserable evenings…

Everything changed; and not for our benefit. And not subtly either.

As it were, the overcast sky seemed incapable of surrender. Those foredooming clouds of drench couldn’t simply vanish into something blue, sunlit…something to warm/dry our bruised, weary husks. No…winter came quietly, like sleep or death -- the eye of ill fortune. Blanketing everything in ice; starvation and desperation. There wasn't time for disbelief, not when the evidence of our dwindling fate was falling upon our island hideaway like tidewater. Plants, streams…the very tears solidifying below these bewildered, terrified eyes. Nothing could escape.

Another round of crippling spasms…another inhale of cold, painful air. Shutters pinch, their frost tinged lashes blinking rapidly. As the shock-waves float into the back of my throat and these lips clench into their firm, unyielding line -- their effort is weak and fails to silence that audible groan of pure misery. Her rumbling voice fills the empty spaces in my head, 'we have to hunt…and soon,' the undertow of that voice is stiff, borderline agitated (certainly disapproving,) but not entirely desperate. Not urgent yet. I said nothing in reply; but our (my) betraying stomach turns restlessly in agreement. The she-wolf resents our equine pulse… and how stubbornly it was set against her manner of foraging.

'Hunting,' she corrects mildly.

When the blankets of snow were light, compact -- I spent our traveling hours as the she-wolf. Her fur is dense, far warmer than a thin, delicate equine coat. But I'd (we'd) never killed anything...partly because of repulsion, but mostly (though never admitted) because Noah couldn't alter his form into one who'd digest meat. “Which way do you prefer, sweet?” Frosty ears turn his way, absorbing the calm noise of his inquiry. Sensing the uncertainty...the harbinger dining on us both. I lean forward, pressing this cool cheek against his milk/honey shoulder, eager for connection, for warmth. My gaze tilts, narrowing toward that dark, northern skyline, "maybe there..." these dual painted orbs rest on the rigid, silhouetted pinnacles. "The wind is strong here," as if delighted by my notice -- a torrent blew upward and brought with it...a sharp, hungry cry from somewhere in the darkness. Audits flick rearward as these forelimbs draw closer -- inching my feathered waist into his longer, wider plumage.

Currently championing:

The sound of her answer, neither the troubled note upon which those few syllables leaned nor reference beneath its generalised notion, were lost to the great attentive eagle and his bright eyes turned back to view her with softness—and concern. There was a visible air about him, confidence and acceptance, that the suffering dove shared not; the lines of fatigue, stress and hunger loomed like shadowed trenches against the elegant features of her small dished face, and he knew too, that she was missing Miette. His thick crest curled harshly as the plush of his whiskered lips narrowed a gentle kiss upon her bared brow-line. The priority was to find shelter in this callous, unpredictable land of extremes, a base perhaps because all the wandering in the world had created a path to nothing but painful insecurity.

This hell was not like Helovia, nor the other places they had briefed, there was no defined exit—and the gods only knew how they’d arrived here in the first place.

The sound of something sinister—unmistakably so—brought a fresh waltz of prickles to his spine, and his heavy skull lifted as the dove sidled nervously nearer. The wind shook the leave at their tail savagely, though Noah was not foolish enough to presume it was the weather alone; not here. Drawing a long breath, eyes still fixed upon the forest her suggested, “have you the strength to travel by air?” The evening was coming on heavily now, descending across their chilled shoulders like an ominous curtain and drowning their capacity to judge their surroundings, with any sort of intelligence. He wasn’t a fan of wind anyway, but the gale buffeting their bodies camouflaged the treacherous tune around them; as though to emphasise a point of urgency, the eagle’s golden wings began to unfurl beneath her touch, and his broadened nostrils lifted, tasting the biting frost in the air.


Currently championing:

"Yes," that swift, thoughtless agreement easily betrays, easily boons consent. But the tide of fatigue and hypothermia made for a painfully slow physical response, despite his vocal spur at my flank AND our latest tormentor somewhere in the ebbing, frozen darkness. These arms slide with slow, necessary unwillingness from their tight, packaged hold. A bitter wave of cold air rushes inward, icing those previously untouched nooks with a bite of underfed savagery. Violent tremors overtake my shrinking, pitiful obedience -- and for one (or three) rigid moments, I'm frozen in place. My heart sways into melancholy, coming to a detached realization; an epiphany of our near future.

We're going to...

The she-wolf barks a single, aggravated note. Her sharp, abrupt noise cuts off my negativity before it can labor into the realm of physiological suicide, 'enough,' she snaps and presses forward; not asking permission. Despite the fine edge of aggression in her tone, our alteration is tapered with gentleness -- the change of rein is smooth, effortless. Predatory, triangular angles replace those of softer, sphere-like caliber. Her warm fur envelopes and simultaneously diminishes the power of that horrible gale with some measure of success. She (I) pace forward and draw aside, pulling apart our (my) powerful, feathery arms to full reach As they arch overhead, their primaries fanning  -- her commanding voice ascends, becoming soft and low, 'this isn’t the worst you’ve been.' Predatory irises rotate upward, finding (our) my precious mate.