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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
JUST LIKE YOU SAID IT WOULD BE
RP Wanted The Portal 
Enna
Currently championing:
#1
ENNA & MEHR

 
 
It is mayhem as you come through into the perverseness of this new world, just as it had been when you had left the pieces of your home behind. Too many cry out, too many nameless faces, grieving and frightened and lost, some filled with anger and blame, swarm around you, caught in the midst of upheaval that the wrath of a god had brought. It is a slow revelation for you that not one of them is known, not one is familiar as you look through the waves of them, sheets of numbness reverberating with a distant ache as you move through them, too stunned, too swallowed in yourself to allow room for another’s sorrows.

It all only becomes heavier as the rush of bodies becomes less, as their noise fades to a whisper and then to almost nothing; voices carried by the wind only to be heard if one listened for them, the remnants of despair, the pieces of a world to be seen again only in dreams. Your legs shake beneath you as you stop, finally noticing the way that the shadows around you shift, and the life of their own that they take on. Unease seeps into your bones, a glance given to the little wolf that has paused several feet in front of you. Even he is on edge in his young age, twitching with every noise, his body poised to fight, to flee, while yours only trembles further.

You look back in the direction the two of you had come, back into swirling mists that cloak tragedy. There is a part of you that wants to return, to heal, to stop the loss of more lives, but something inside of you knows that you lost that with your Basin’s god, lost all your familiarity of the flora and their uses with Helovia. And still an even bigger part of you bleeds, bleeds for the second loss of your daughter, your son, for a lion-hearted boy, a man made of sand that you could never forg(ive)et.

They are a hole in your narrow chest, their faces (and are they the faces of only ghosts, now?) stapled to the back of your eyelids, their names the lump in your throat. You breathe against it, that breath turning to a sob as you sink to your knees, wisps of fog curling around you, your body hitting the ground with a soft thud. Mehr makes his way to you, pressing his wet nose to the softness of your kneecap, those golden eyes looking up at you with muted empathy. It takes a moment for you to recognize the quietness between you, how he feels so wrongly far, somehow severed, and you can only hope that it is not permanent, that this is not the life that your hand in killing gods had rewarded you—of exile from those that you have so deeply loved, of never knowing what happened to them, if they are safe here, or if they were buried beneath bedlam.


 
for @Rohan + Erebos only, please




I can't access Helovia, but Enna was my only character posted to the end thread<3

Magic:
SAFE
[Magic: FirexSpark(?) | Able to summon white sparks (or flames, up to admin) that heal what they come into contact with. ]
:: [Restirctions | Requires concentration, is physically draining. ]
 
Amulet: 1 Time God
 
Companion:
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: Mid Drench 1173 (6.10.17)
 
Requests: I’d like to keep her appearance/magic much the same if possible :3
 
Also would like to keep her regular items por favor:
 
:: [Item: Slate colored cloth sling that ties at shoulders and hangs to middle of chest. Able to carry small to medium items inside. ]
:: [Item: Dead butterfly in a jar. ]
:: [Item: Seashell hairclip. ]
:: [Item: Green sea turtle charm. ]
Rift Presence
Currently championing:
#2
The land, it greets you; it curls around you, whispers faintly, just on the edge of your awareness. The neon eyes blink and shift, but some of them surely don't have bodies attached to them? They're too high up, or.. or there's just nothing there...
the Rift

[ TRANSFER NOTES: ENNA ]
Magic:
Healing: Ability to summon white flames that heal what they come into contact with.

Amulets:
Your amulet gives a popping noise, before sizzling, melting down into nothing. Oddly, it doesn't hurt.

Companion:
Mehr: Arctic Wolf
Obtained: 10th June 2017
Birth Date: Mid-Drench 1173

Normal items transfer fine!
» Presence of the Rift «


Rohan
Currently championing:
#3
Finally, he stirs.

He has no idea how long he has lain on the wet forest floor—how many hours or minutes have passed since Helovia had been crumbled into nothing, and everything he had come to know (and love) had been swallowed by the rioting darkness. The stallion shifts his large weight, and a groan escapes from clenched lips as he realizes how stiff and sore his muscles are. Blearily he blinks his eyes open, narrowing his gaze as he squints against the strange shadows and pulsing lights that dance around him.

From somewhere close by, he hears a warbling chirp of a baby bird.
Remembering then that his soul is not his own, the stallion rolls over onto his side, wincing at the sudden pain that shoots through his shoulder. Dutifully he shakes it off, shuffling uneasily to his feet, numb to the warm blood that oozes from the wound, matting the long hair on his foreleg. He keeps his head low, breathing a slow breath across the downy feathers of his barely-hatched companion. The ashen-brown hawkling looks nauseous, and weary, but otherwise unharmed. Ever so gently, Rohan lifts his dear companion onto his back, where the bird nestles into the long hair across his withers.

He sighs to himself, twisting his ears back before stepping further into the living, writhing shadows.

There is only one woman on his mind, now. He searches for her, ignoring the glowing eyes that watch him, sending a tingling sensation down his neck that puts his nerves on edge. He doesn’t even notice how he clenches his jaw until he finally sees her, and his muscles relax with relief to see her alive. “Enna!” He breathes her name, ignoring the throbbing of his bruised body as he rushes forward to her resting figure.

“Enna, are you hurt?” His voice is laced with worry and his brow knits together with concern as the stallion draws close, lowering his head. He hovers near her cheek, wanting nothing more than to reach out and embrace her, but the echo of her last hateful words hold him back like a tether. Instead he waits with baited breath, the weight of his body leaning towards the mare his heart so desperately yearns for. The shadows of the damp forest dance in his peripheral view—a constant reminder that they are not alone.

tag; @Enna
“Speech.”
rohan&enna
I found comfort in your words and lost control
and now that you’re far away,
I lost it all.

image credits


{SWP participation}

Magics:
  • {SAFE} EarthxWind (U) | Able to create a tornado of sand and stones.

Enchanted items
  • {SAFE} Enchanted Armor | Defensive. Leather armor that covers the face/neck/body/legs; is enchanted to be as strong as metal.

Rift-god / Kaos items
  • None.

Amulets : Two! (1 Earth and 1 Moon)

Companion/s :
  • {SAFE} Éomer :: White-tailed Eagle | Scream | obtained 07-09-2017 (mid Drench 1173)

Mutations: None.

Requests: Bringing his other items..
  • Band of the Tree | Bracelet of gold leaf and green stones.
  • Glass Spear | Offensive. Medium sized, double edged glass spear.
  • Stiletto Dagger (‘Misericordia’) | Offensive. Medium-sized stiletto dagger, made with stainless steel and a black leather hilt.
  • Dagger Sheath | A medium-sized black dagger sheath; fits around upper leg.
  • Cloak | A dark green hooded cloak, made with a sturdy soft fabric, and clasps around the chest with leather ties.
please tag Rohan in all replies!
magic & force are permitted.
Rift Presence
Currently championing:
#4
Eyes blink, slowly at first. And then quickly. There are so many, all fluttering glowing orbs shrouded in sharp shadows that awn open like screaming mouths between the eyes.

Then, as swift as they had appeared, the eyes are gone.
the Rift

| TRANSFER NOTES : ROHAN |

Magic:
Offensive: Able to create a tornado of sand and stones.

Items:
Defensive: Leather armor enchanted to be as strong as metal that covers the face/neck/body/legs.

Amulets:
Although the eyes are gone, their screaming mouths are not; and so their teeth reach for your godsblood amulets, and in the process scrape along your impressive antlers, leaving glowing white teeth marks in their wake.

Companion:
Éomer : White-tailed Eagle
OOC Obtained: 9 July 2017
Rift Birthdate: Mid Drench 1173

Normal items transfer fine, just this thread as link-proof in your profile.
» Presence of the Rift «


Erebos
Currently championing:
#5

The Rift had already anointed him with its nefarious touch. Some were unremarkable, annoying, a tad ridiculous, like the snakes intertwining from his chin where there should’ve been tangles and threads of hair (some black, some white – but these cretins were all mist and fog, like everything else in this damned world). Some were intriguing, triumphant, a pull from another empire, the etching of former Gods, spiraling from his skull marking in the fog, in the murk, in the din – a reminder of so many things that he held near and dear to his blackguard heart. Then some were malignant and bruising, wretched and consuming: the bites and scars from the sirens’ beasts, the lack of his fire invocations, the absence of Enyo, the silence of Orsino – that left him stuck and crawling amongst a void, bestial, brutal, working his way through ruthless rhythms and unrelenting schemes, slithering towards a day when everything would be his again. The prince intended to show this new hell just exactly what he was made of – persistence, tenacity, endurance, fortitude, strength, potency, prowess, and vengeance. He was going to ensure it would rue the hours, the moments, the instances, it ever crossed his rancorous, audacious soul. He’d grit his teeth, he’d harpoon gods, and he’d fell cities until he got what he wanted. If the earth yearned to watch him spin avarice and greed into his mercurial whims, then the die had already been cast, the sword already glinting, the stratagems already taking place.
 
So he persevered, angling his way through the doom and gloom as if he belonged to it, another one of the shadows, christened, immersed, and consecrated by black endeavors and Stygian enterprises. His movements were predatory, insistent, hunting, stalking the legions of furtive, deceptive parlors and hallways over and over again for the same motives and crusades – finding the lost. The General wasn’t entirely altruistic: he favored those he knew, those he cherished, those he remembered and recalled from eons spent amidst glaciers and summits, valleys, unfreezing lakes, friends and family, kin and countrymen, fellow soldiers, those who had nowhere else to go. His hopes, still residual pieces of a more valorous time, when kingdoms hadn’t fallen apart and deities hadn’t been falsehoods, glinted on raven wings and serval paws, or stag antlers, curling tendrils of silken white. They weren’t tainted yet, blinded by the restless dreams of retribution and renewal: all boyish ambition, all impish reserve, all arrogant regard. He’d find them – he was certain. It was written in his heart, in his lungs, in his bones, in his marrow, in his flesh.
 
The scope of his narrowed eyes watched neon beams and streaks of light punctured through the foggy air, and followed them. They usually meant something, he’d come to learn; the appearance of others, finally come to a new, godforsaken shore, hoping for something better, something brighter, and drowned in the wake of the foreign soil, the bewitching, eldritch vacuity. His hooves barely made a sound, he was a whisper, he was a blade, and Orsino painted one more sable picture into the mess, a portrait of potent brushstrokes seeking out another who’d delved straight along the madness…
 
But then all he saw was her.
 
She was more or less the same as he’d last seen her – and it tore a rankled breath from his lungs, a small, relieved fury curled around his chest. “Enna!” He bristled and carved his way along the land without so much as a care, savagery and might, forgetting the painful reminders of his recent curiosities, forgoing the silliness of his appearance, racing, so entirely grateful this land hadn’t bruised her yet, that she’d been found, that she was safe (and he’d make sure, he’d always make sure) –
 
Another glimpsed into his sights, and he suddenly froze, completely, utterly still.
 
Erebos didn’t recognize the other stallion, but perhaps he should have, because there was something strikingly familiar about him – like he’d seen those markings before, painted on someone else. He hadn’t heard him shout her name too, but he’d seen the closeness, the near proximity, the dusting of his touch on her cheek. Orsino settled near his forelegs while the scion’s nostrils flared, while a dastardly, lethal contortion rippled through his figure, through his being. It stayed there, clawing, ripping, tearing, a maddening sensation, a swift imposition of rage and contempt, eager, fervent, ready to dash straight into his muscles. Beyond that was a mess of confusion too, misunderstandings and befuddlement warping into blistering measures and calculated guesses, most distasteful, toxic; his eyes narrowed, segmented on both of them, steps inclined towards the darkness again, where maybe none of them could see the marks the empire had already scored into his frame (lesser; he felt less than them, lacking, stupid, passed over, tossed aside). “Welcome to the Rift,” the soldier nodded to both, taut and rebellious, wondering why he’d searched for so long, why he’d bothered at all. 

Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want

image || table

@Rohan @Enna
Enna
Currently championing:
#6

but I’ve pushed myself down so far—
I couldn’t come back if I tried



Are you hurt?

Even as your chest swells with that whispering inkling of a maybe hidden beneath the tenor of his tone, the way it quakes with something that is so familiar to you, so foreign to him, and the young wolf shifts, glancing at him with guarded apprehension from between the two of you, and that maybe turns to ash beneath the scorch of your anger, still too potent to allow forgiveness even with the way your heart sings in relief to know that he is safe, to know that he had not been devoured by the darkness or his life spilled into nothing but dust, you do not look to him. As he reaches for you, his breath all too warm against your cheek, too familiar in the way that your chest heaves with your own shaky breath, in the way that it leaves the weakest parts of you longing even still, you only turn from him, look to the wolf and then the living shadows in the creases of the trees.

“Does it matter?” You finally give, the words flat, caught within all your bitterness for him, for his wanderlust and his careless ways (for yourself, because you always knew, knew and believed you could one day be enough), within the sorrow harbored deep in your weeping soul for all the rest. For the that were lost and the ones that remain sewn in among the chaos of this new world, too many ripped from their families, from everything they have known.

For the boy who is too much like his father (you had been angry when Rohan had said it,  angry because he had left, forfeited the right to know his son and yet still guessed, grasping at notions he believed correct because of how he had been—and even angrier because he was right—), the grave nestled beneath a tree, secret to you, only you and men you used to know, unmarked by the flowers you would bring her on her birthday, robbed of any company, of being reminded that she matters. “I lost them again.”

It comes a sudden whisper, your ears tilting back as your eyes squeeze shut, swollen and raw, your body shuddering though no more tears come, too tired to cry any longer.

“Had I known what was coming, what Kisamoa truly was, I—” would have gone to her, would have stayed and added to the bones under that tree, would not have chosen this. Your lips press closed as the wolf whines pitifully, as you usher apologies and assurances before your head finally lifts towards him, seeking the relative comfort of his familiarity,  of him being the only one to have been there for too much of your life.

The color of red catches you off-guard, brows knitting together as you lean closer to the wound, nose pressing gently against the skin above it. The feeling of helplessness that crept along your bones begins to abate as only heat takes its place, your eyes widening as light arcs along his cut, growing to colorless flame even as you pull away. There is no smoke, no heat from the sparking fire, no smell of burning flesh, and as it fades to the nothing it came from, only the drying blood remains.

You blink in disbelief, unable to fully grasp the how or why, an uncertain smile creasing along your lips as they rest once more against his leg. The sounds of another forces you to move from him, your head swiveling in the direction of the stranger,  a soft whine emitting from you as just enough light bleeds onto his features, your soul lurching as you scramble to your feet, oblivious to the distance etched into his face, the way he stands, laced heavy in his words.

Erebos, you breathe only his name and nothing more, the rest of the words, the sentiments heavy on your tongue, melding into the coils of your heart, drowning in bliss. Your body moves to collide with his without hesitation, your face burying into the muscle of his shoulder with need, the sandstone man and his little hawkling forgotten as you breathe in the faint smell of home, of mountains and valleys and tall, tall pines that are no longer, of a boy you’ve built a castle in your heart for.

Moments pass before you pull yourself from him, reaching to tenderly touch his boney cheek as you do. It is impossible to hide the grin, the way your skin trembles with quiet excitement, eyes moving over him, to the fox at his feet, searching for the spotted feline with the stygian wings, instead finding nothing where she should be. Your face drops as you look back to him, stomach twisting uncomfortably with all the possibilities of what could be, knowing that she would not leave willingly, knowing that he wouldn’t just let her go. “Enyo?”


image & table by reli


@Erebos @Rohan
Erebos
Currently championing:
#7

He presumed something else would fall apart again – it always did here, in this time, in this place, with meek traces of hope plummeting down into nothingness. The granules of triumph were frequently defeated by the constant onslaught of terror, horror, and destruction. It was all he knew now, all he understood, and he’d give anything to return back to where they once belonged, to those trifle seconds and instances where everything didn’t seem so bleak, so scattered, so ripped apart and torn (but hadn’t that always been the way – he’d searched for fragments of the past and be so bitter towards the present). The insurrection plagued over his limbs, over his heart, danced wicked, deceit throngs, murmured catastrophic nothings, so when he stood over the sanction, over the clearing of shadows and misery, he waited for the caustic plunge, for the distant rubble to return, smash against his sides, brutalize his form. Cruelty was the oblivion now, was the enduring sorrow, was the thing that fed and feasted on their ambitions, on their yearnings, on their dreams; and he almost thought to tell Enna as she sprang towards him, to run, to run, to run back the other way and never return (nothing for her here; naught but scars and sorrow, ghosts with misery muses). It wouldn’t be fair for her, for anyone, to have to stay amidst these hollowed hills. The youth simply didn’t have anywhere else to go – and maybe it was fitting, how he’d plunged and descended straight into hell the moment he’d delivered Calstron’s fitting fate upon his malicious, embittered hide.

But he folded too the instant she came to his shoulder, curled his cranium over the top of her and tried not to sink into her embrace. He’d been holding himself upright for a while now, had been drawing from endurance and might, had been painstakingly tied to fortitude and anger, and the toxic, persistent doldrums simmered away at her touch; he sighed, loosened the thousand, vicious, hostile breaths he’d been holding, the lifetimes of damnation coiling over his soul. The youth didn’t even say anything at first, just believed and held, listened to the way sanctuary portrayed a significant clamor, scent, and presence, pushing his way along her frame until his cheek rested against hers, and he didn’t give care that someone else was nearby, wafting, waiting, hovering, feeling something other than complete, utter hatred in what seemed like eternity. “You’re all right?” He questioned, he implored, the single note of apprehension wavering along the horizon, upon the tips of shadows and darkness, the Stygian brutality stirring between his lungs. She’d know what could occur if anyone had caused her harm, if anything had reached out and scalded her, if any phantoms had already gone wandering too far-

Then her inquiry seemed to rumble along his mind, echoing through a hundred instances as she realized one vital piece of him was missing (along with so many others; buried, gone, tossed in the fall, in the disasters, in the ruins) - Enyo - and he pulled away, stared into the dark, at the stranger nestled beyond, at the interplay of acrimony and fire. “This place took her.” It was a warning and a declaration, because if Enna knew him at all, understood the way he worked and the way he sketched and the way he designed, plotted, schemed, there would eventually be a moment where the world would’ve wished it’d never done such a thing. Perhaps, at that insistence, she too would go the way she’d come, or twist around to find another path, to fly away and never return – so she wouldn’t be pulled, maligned, and become another one of the wounded, rancorous souls searching for answers.

Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want

image || table

@Rohan @Enna