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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
Red Blood, Blue Blood, Old Blood, New Blood
RP Wanted The Portal 
Currently championing: Caevoc


:// System Reboot Complete.
:// Probability of System Error: 21.84%. Run Basic System Diagnostic?


Unconsciously, the decision was made.


:// Running Basic System Diagnostic… Please wait.

:// Biocomponents: Optimal
WARNING: External temperature exceeds below safe levels. Seek immediate shelter to prevent catastrophic biocomponent damage and system failure.
:// Backup CPU: 100%
:// Thirium Levels: 100%
:// Memory Array: Intact. Corruption detected: Total of 42.5 hours of memory missing.
Attempting to Upload: Please wait… Memory upload failed.
Attempting to Upload: Please wait… Memory upload failed. Seek nearest technician for immediate corrective recalibration.
:// Touch Receptors: Offline
:// Visual Array: Offline
:// Emergency Stasis Initiated. Seek nearest technician for immediate corrective recalibration.

:// Initializing…

His systems came back online with a vivid jolt, LED blinking a rapid red before cycling to yellow. Mahogany eyes fluttered open, optics sluggishly coming back online. For a moment his vision remained a distorted mess, the scenery coming to him in hues of dull, blurry monochrome. It took a moment of thought before his vision corrected itself, sharpening into focus as color filtered back into the recovering sensors. Lifting his head, he scanned his environment, cataloguing every detail with finite obsession. The scenery around him was unrecognizable. He had never been here before. Upon his right temple, the glowing of his LED remained a rapid yellow as he processed the area.

Dense smoke and mist curled around thick vines and trunks of ancient trees, billowing and collecting atop frost and snow. Through the darkness, he could see eerie yellow eyes staring back at him. No matter which way he looked, neck twisting to look all around him, nothing of familiarity stood out. Nothing struck him as familiar.

Where was this?

Uncaring about the watching eyes, the curling mists, or the snow that fell lazily from the skies to collect upon the ground, Connor focused instead inward. He consulted the results of his system check with a frown. His memory was corrupt? Systematically he filtered through his most recent memory, and couldn’t recall how, exactly, he ended up in a misty forest of vines and large trees. Curious.

Without a sound the bay slowly unfolded his legs and pushed himself upright with considerable grace. He took a moment to admire his physical form, satisfied that there were no injuries. Snow began to collect upon his body, his naturally lower body temperature unable to cause them to melt. One result from his system test remained in the upper right corner of his vision, a steadfast reminder;

WARNING: External temperature exceeds below safe levels. Seek immediate shelter to prevent catastrophic biocomponent damage and system failure.

It was too cold. A quick scan of his surroundings gave him a precise temperature. -14 degrees. Connor knew that he couldn’t stay, not at the risk of harming his biocomponents or thirium lines. While unable to grow sick with illness or suffer hypothermia, the intense cold could still cripple him and freeze his internals. He needed to move fast.

New Primary Objective: Find shelter.

Which, judging from the plethora of nothing around him, might prove to be more difficult than not.

- Is an android horse. Made out of metal and wires, cannot feel pain. Is unable to repair from serious wounds without proper materials and blue blood.
- Has blue blood called thirium.
- LED in right temple, changes colors.

Open for anyone to come scoop this emotionally stunted robo-boy up!
Currently championing: None

You have a new hobby. It's almost wholesome, actually. You want friends. Good friends. Violent friends. Your pursuits bring you to the Portal again today, your breath a fog caught in the fine strands of your whiskers. Snow crunches underfoot. Hangs heavy in the boughs of the gnarled trees. Your thick coat wards off the worst of it, but this freeze rivals even the brutality of the Aurora Basin. It doesn't bother you, of course. You're not a child, and you're not weak. You just don't particularly enjoy it.

So you're not in a very good mood, right now. But you're trying to keep an open mind because someone good might be around just waiting to meet you. You're a solid blackness on the pale shadows of the forest, your gait lithe and predatory, your horn thrusting keenly skyward. Perhaps there are good Helovians left. Perhaps you just have to find them.

What you do find — is not Helovian. You don't know that, at first. You just know you see wings, not the lurid technicolor of a native Riftian but a comfortingly earthen brown. You pause mid-stride. Blink. Turn fluidly in that direction, your gaze curious if not hopeful.

He's larger than you, but only just: a bay stallion with an impressive mane and a respectable wing span. He looks lost — something about the way he surveys the area. Snow gathers on his back, which is odd, considering it hasn't piled so high on yours, but maybe he's been asleep? Or something. You don't know anything about medical matters, and you're not interested in learning, anyway. You are interested in his name, so you call out across the snow. “You!” Tactful as ever, the low boom of your voice shivering in the trees above. At a halt several strides away, you prick your ears and await a response.

countdown to selfdestruct
Rift Presence
Currently championing:
It's a young Luplux: black, as they often are, with a neon ruff and tail shifting in all the hues of a fire. She's female, a daydreamer, really—she loves to trail after the pack, staring at the stars, or chasing small creatures across the snow. It's not so much about the catch as it is about the hunt, the sheer, fierce joy of the chase, and for this reason, she doesn't catch a lot.

Her pack has warned her many times before to keep up. They have mouths to feed, places to go; they can't hold up all the time just because some whim takes her.

She tried. She really tried. And this was the first time she'd actually failed. She'd been chasing some hare, and then she'd got turned around in the Portal, a blizzard had erased her tracks about halfway back to where she'd left the Pack, and they weren't answering her howls.

So, she'd gone back to the Portal.

And now, she was hungry, so she did what she so rarely did: hunted with the intention of a kill. Laid out on the snow, cold and alone, was a newcomer. An ideal target—the horse seemed unconscious. Her mouth watered. She licked her lips and snuck closer on silent paws.


The horse rose up, effortlessly. He looked around himself. Another appeared; the young female heard him. Her gut rumbled. It was now or never.

Quick as a flash of lightning she rushed onto the scene, her bright ruff standing erect and flashing once, twice, brightly, so bright it rattled the senses. It was usually enough to stun the prey for a moment or two.

Then her jaws closed around the left hindleg of the bay horse, and



it was just all wrong. Foul-tasting liquid fell upon her tongue, her teeth connected with—with—something that definitely wasn't flesh and tendons and bones, and, startled, she released the leg she'd barely bitten into and jumped back. She hovered there for just a second, a look of profound confusion and bewilderment (and, yes, disappointment) on her youthful, narrow face. A couple of dark blue drops dripped from her jaw and onto the snow.

Then, with a flick of her bright tail, she bolted into the forest, to find something that was actually edible.
the Rift


Is an android horse. Made out of metal and wires, cannot feel pain. Is unable to repair from serious wounds without proper materials and blue blood.
Has blue blood called thirium.
LED in right temple, changes colors.
» Presence of the Rift «

Currently championing: Caevoc


Posture straight, shoulders back, head forward, Connor continued to survey his surroundings from a stationary position. He scanned everything that his eyes landed on, LED cycling a constant, blinking yellow that pierced through the inky dark. Scanning, scanning, scanning… Filtering away bits of information that may or may not hold use in the future; the temperature, the unknown trees and thick vines and other forms of vegetation, the swirling smoke-like mist, the sounds…

Around him the snow continued to fall, white flakes collecting upon the rich bay tone of his artificial hide. Still the snow refused to melt.

The sound of  motion nearby caught his ears. Connor’s head turned, eyes narrowing as he peered through the eerie darkness, optic sensors adjusting to better see through the dark. A black and ivory creature approached, spotted him then froze, yet remained a safe distance away. An equine. Winged. A pegasus. The bay frowned, scanning the winged equine on instinct. The results were not near as detailed as they should have been.

Male. Fifteen-point-three hands. Age estimation: Three-to-four years. Caution: Potential threat level: Low. It really wasn’t much information at all. Still, Connor would do as he always did and adapt.

’You!’ The call seemed to tremble upon the very trees around them, reverberating through the brush and earth alike. Connor simply stared, blinking once every six seconds. Him? What about him? Was he somewhere that he shouldn’t be? Posture erect and seemingly frozen and immobile, Connor refused to move a single inch, consciously preserving precious energy. Then, after what could be perceived as an unnerving amount of time, Connor tilted his head slightly to the right as his LED continued to blink a rapid yellow.

“Hello.” The stallion’s voice was smooth and calm in his greeting, bordering on respectful. Before anything else could be said, however, a third creature joined them, leaping through the brush with hackles raised. Connor’s head snapped towards its direction, scanning, scanning… Yet nothing useful popped up in his memory. A wolf? No, not quite. Not like any he knew of.

A warning flickered in the top right of his vision, but suddenly the neon scruff of the not-wolf’s fur seemed to flare like a signal, disrupting the dark area in a bright, blinding light. With his optics adjusted to see through the dark, the sudden increase of light was enough to temporary blind him, and he took a cautionary step back just as the neon not-wolf attacked, LED blinking a furious red of alarm. She lunged, aiming to wrap her jaws about the bay’s left hind leg, and Connor bristled at the pressure as sharp canines latched onto the synthetic flesh and metal bone of his leg.

Before he could even try to kick out and dislodge her, however, the not-wolf seemed to realize that he was not like other equines. He was the furthest thing from a meal as she could have possibly found. She tore herself from his leg, looking particularly perplexed with blue blood staining her muzzle, before darting off back into the dense fog and forest. Connor simply watched her go, expression nearly quizzical. From the punctures of her teeth dripped a small flow of thirium, but it was nothing to be concerned about. None of his vital vascular lines had been severed. It would heal, given time.

Turning his head, ears forward and expression rather earnest despite having just been attacked and injured, albeit slightly, Connor focused once more on the young stallion standing ahead of him. Finally, his LED settled on a calm blue. He appeared calm, collected, and not at all bothered by what had just occurred. “My name is Connor.”

Currently championing: None

There is something strange about him. You can't place it, though. It's in little details: the way he turns, the way he looks at you. The almost-vacant tranquility of his eyes. Even the way his voice sounds, smooth and unbothered. Your eyes narrow. Gears are turning in your brain, turning and turning, a warning ringing between your ears.

Danger does appear — well, "danger" — but it comes from an unexpected direction. A small creature, almost a wolf but not quite. Your sinewy body draws taut; wings flex. Your neck arches, bringing the horn to bear, but the creature ignores you. It fastens its jaws around the stranger's leg. For just an instant — an instant — and then it's gone.


With a snort, you leap to the side and dart forward as if to give chase, but what use is an animal to you? You want the man, not this thoughtless thing. So you break off the chase almost as soon as you begin, adrenaline flowing in your veins. Circling back around to the pegasus, you blow a snort, searching more attackers. But you see none. “The fuck,” you grunt, your ears turned back. At least the excitement has warmed your blood a little.

The stranger takes you by surprise, now. He speaks again, derailing your thoughts, and for the space of several quick heart beats, you just stare at him. Connor, says your brain. Your eyes skate down to his leg, to the dark blue staining the snow, and there your gaze lingers for a much longer time.

Something — something darkens in you.

“Bleeding,” you point out, the words grinding from your chest. A kind of curious, a kind of angry tilt to your head. You've never seen blue blood before. It could be magic, or it could be something Rift born, and that is why he's calm. Because he isn't lost at all — because he's tricking you.

Your wings fold back with a snap.

You step forward, surveying him. His strange, calm expression. The gold upon his forehead. The absolutely normal wings. And the wound on his leg — a leg even a Rift creature didn't want to touch.

“What are you?” you ask. The words come out more a demand than a question, and now your horn has lowered just a little to mark the distance between you, a distance wavering as you move to circle him, far more predatory than his tiny attacker could ever have hoped to be.

countdown to selfdestruct
Currently championing: Caevoc


In the wake of the attack, the stranger reacts as most living things do; unpredictably. He lunges to follow the creature in haste, yet seems to think better of it and hesitates.

Connor watches him all the while, cataloguing, analyzing. Attempting to understand. The stranger displays the desire to follow, to give chase to the neon-haired not-wolf. Why? What would the end result be? What would the young stranger do once he had caught the creature? What purpose did it serve? Connor doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. Outwardly his expression remains the same, that vacant sort of stare as his LED pulses a steady, calm blue. Interesting. Passively, he tilts his head slightly to the right, continuing to watch.

The artificial Pegasus holds his ground, even as the stranger turns and regards him with a remarkable amount of uncertainty. The young stallion’s eyes, so very bright and vibrant with life and emotion, dart downwards and take in the sight of Connor’s injured leg. ’Bleeding,’ he states, as though Connor was unaware of that very fact. He isn’t. The wounds are already beginning to heal, artificial skin slowly retracting around the small punctures, hiding away the white of his chassis. Thirium coagulates and halts as the skin closes, and within moments the flesh has healed and the dark hairs of his legs have regrown. Were it not for the glisten of blue blood upon his leg and the drips upon the white snow at his feet, one would be unable to tell that he had even been injured.

The stranger, however, does not seem to like this.

Connor knows that there is a shift. His obsessive scanning gives him plenty of warning, even as the stranger begins to prowl and approach as though he were a predator. The LED flickers to yellow, processing, processing

Caution: Potential threat level: High.

The bay’s mahogany eyes harden, head tilting downwards in preparation, rolling his shoulders as he straightened to attention. His artificial wings, previously relaxed and drooping, mirror the stranger’s sudden action and snap back as he draws himself to his full height. Still, the machine does not speak. He watches, he catalogues, and he adapts.

Then, a directive. An order. ’What are you?’ Connor speaks to answer immediately, his words firm, words repeated hundreds of times before, from his lips and those that had come before his model. “I am a machine. Serial number 313 248 317 – 51.” A pause, a brief tilt of the head, the raising of brows. A facsimile of an earnest expression. It was a dare, the calling of a bluff. “I would not advise attacking me. I cannot feel pain, and you would only exhaust yourself.”

Currently championing: None

I am a machine. You hesitate just a little as your mind churns over this answer. This word — you don't know it. And now you feel foolish, and he made you feel it, and rage begins a two-step across the inside of your skull. Your expression narrows down. You're searching him for weaknesses, for further information, something

He looks like a pegasus, now. But you know he isn't Helovian. The blue is gone, the wound healed abnormally fast, and you know magic can do this but he's something else, something you've never seen before. You might be content to circle for a while, to ask further questions, but then he has the nerve to speak again. To issue a warning — to you.

You pause, something nameless crossing your face.

A shudder — some combination of emotions too strong for your body to contain. “Is that so?” you manage, and the words twist and sear on your tongue, anger grinding your low voice lower. Anger slicking back your ears, baring your young teeth. Holding you, for an instant, so very still.

In that instant, you study his face. In that instant, you forget your purpose in the Portal. In that instant, you make a decision, and your body moves. Your horn leads, as always: a smooth, graceful push of the perfect sword in the direction of the machine's smug amber eye.

countdown to selfdestruct
Currently championing: Caevoc


{Name Blank}: Hostile

Connor’s expression remains that same replica of inexpressive neutrality even as the words cross the upper corner of his HUD. The stranger continues to stalk closer, heedless of their immediate surroundings, the still falling snow, or the below-freezing temperatures.

Connor was not.

He was very aware of the negative ambient temperature. Should he remain here, his biocomponents would be in danger of imminent shutdown, the thirium that pumped through his veins capable of freezing after prolonged exposure. It was a risk he could not afford to take, not when he was offline from the main network and could not reach any form of repair technicians. He was no closer to discovering where he was or what had happened to corrupt the last 42.5 hours of his memory, but it was becoming obvious that this stranger would be no help.

’Is that so?’ A low question. Rhetorical. Carefully enunciated with barely concealed anger and other emotions that Connor had no notion of replicating or understanding. The said male halts in his pacing, standing almost unnaturally still for a creature made of flesh and blood. He answers without inflection.


It was a moment. A single moment that seemed to stretch for both a second and a year. Longer, perhaps. Connor doesn’t know. What he does know is that in one moment, the dark stranger is standing stock-still, frozen by whatever complex emotions make up his person. In the next, the stranger is lurching forward, ears pinned, teeth bared, and his horn - warning, warning, warning - is poised to strike.

LED flashing a bright, distressed red, Connor moves. His physical expression does not change. Ears forward and alert, doleful brown eye remain impassive, dark lips twisted in a neutral look. He appears, to the outsider, completely unhindered and strangely at ease by the sudden attack. The bay shifts, wings tightening, as he draws himself through the snow to the left in order to avoid the dangerous point of the stranger’s horn. It slashes through the air only millimeters from where he had just been standing, and Connor swings around so that he remains facing the young male. Anticipating another attack, preparing himself, adapting, adapting, adapting

Only then is there a change in his expression, a downward twist of the lips and the narrowing of deceptively gentle mahogany eyes. “You are being very disruptive towards my mission,” the artificial bay states, ”Fighting you is not my primary directive.” Nor was it even a secondary directive. Straightening, Connor rolled a shoulder, lifted his jaw, and relaxed. Proper, collected, poised.

”If you will not assist me by providing vital information as to where this is or what I may be doing here, then I will be going.” And that was that.