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Home » Search » Roster » Whitepages » Records » FAQ » Guidebook
Daughter of Stinkbutt
RP Wanted The Portal 
Rhiannon
Currently championing:
#1
                                                               
When the portal had opened, when Kaos had begun his killings of those who tried to stop him, mortals and Gods alike, Rhiannon hadn't thought twice.

"Fuck this."

Nothing was holding her back. Nothing was keeping her in an empty land that held little to no meaning. Her only home, her only family had been a few select members of the Basin that had somehow found it in their hearts to give a shit about her. Most of them were dead.

Her father was alive, yeah. That was something. Crazy old coot. Who the fuck knew where Arah was. Her sisters were dead and gone. Those that she had loved, had once loved, were far from her grasp, and perhaps it was better that way. The only thing she knew she would truly miss would be the frozen landscape of the Basin and the borealis that had kept her company since the dawn of her birth. Everything else? Yeah. Fuck it.

The brindled devil had stepped through the portal boldly, unafraid of what lay on the other side. If it was death, then that was fine. Another world? Perfect. Anything was better than the hell she was leaving behind.

The world that she found herself in was unlike anything else she had ever seen, but despite it all, Rhiannon simply felt numb. Loss was a familiar friend, her heart shielded from affection and made bitter by grief. The glowing, blistering eyes that peered at her only caused her to glare in return, angry at their judgemental stares. Who they hell were they to judge her? What had she done to them?

"And fuck you."

Outside of the prying eyes, however, were the various breeds of vegetation, the glowing fauna and flora amidst the thick trees, gnarled roots and ferns reaching out to trip or ensnare her. Smoke billowed through the canopies, mists danced about her hooves. It was all very strange, very new, but not overwhelming. This was just another land, another place, full of heartbreak and let downs.

Ears pinned flat against her skull, Rhiannon lashed out, gnashing her teeth towards the vivid eyes that stared at her, shaking her head as frosted curls fell about her in a tangled mess. Instead of speaking any further, however, the brindled devil simply began to walk, wanting nothing more than to be out of this forest and find someplace a bit more real.


Transfer Information

MAGIC
Weapons Master - Offensive | The ability to, through the use of electric currents, creates a magnetic field that attracts iron fillings and forms weapons.

ITEMS/ENCHANTED ITEMS
None

AMULETS
None

COMPANIONS
None
Rift Presence
Currently championing:
#2
The shadows hiss, swell, and engulf you as foul language seems to either excite or anger them. But, really, what’s the difference when it comes to starving, greedy shades?

They funnel through your nostrils, swirl in your chest, and exit through spaces in your spine. Mmm, how decadent.
the Rift

TRANSFER NOTES : RHIANNON

Magic:
Offensive: Ability to form a magnetic filed that attracts iron filings, which embed into her eyes.
» Presence of the Rift «


Rhiannon
Currently championing:
#3
                                                               
It seemed that her lackluster attitude was the wrong one to have. A pity that no one had the balls to have told her before hand.

The shadows and mists around her seemed to come alive as she strutted past, rushing mercilessly and obscuring the devil's broad form, flowing through a gaping maw and flaring nostrils to settle and pool in her gut. They twisted and danced within her chest, and Rhiannon felt choked, gasping, wheezing, trying desperately to find her breath. Breathe! Breathe!

Gold and silver eyes watered, lashes blinking rapidly over a panicked gaze. What was happening? What was this witchcraft?! She fought against the beast inside of her, jerking her head upwards, horns slicing through the surrounding mist and smoke but with no avail, hooves scrabbling and stamping at the earth, her gaping mouth still wide open as though to either try and catch her breath, expel whatever darkness had taken root inside of her, or scream.

It was the latter that happened. "STOP!"

And it did.

A peculiar feeling settled upon her spine as her voice was swallowed by the trees, an emptying feeling, dissolving or absorbing? She couldn't tell. Rhiannon had no idea what had happened, but she did know that whatever the mists had done left her feeling exposed, vulnerable, and molested. They left the feeling of wrongness in her chest, like something wasn't quite right. What it was, however, she would unfortunately discover in the future.

The brindled devil's breast heaved, sweat coating her dark hide from the unfortunate exhilaration. For a moment she stood still, frozen. If she tried to proceed, would she be attacked again? No.

No. She couldn't think like that. Confidence was the key to her nature. To be confident meant to be in control, and Rhiannon was always in control. A warning glare to the mist that remained dancing through the air was all that the she-devil granted it before she gave a mighty snort, turned on her haunches, and headed in the opposite direction at a brisk trot.

See if she ever trusted smoke or mist again, crazy fluorescent light shows involved or not.


Erebos
Currently championing:
#4
E R E B O S

Erebos returned again and again to the mists, to the fog, to the eldritch titans and vacant, nefarious shadows swelling and ensconcing them whole. The pattern was simple, forthright, and somewhat methodical – tracing over roots and foundations he hadn’t tread yet, hoping to spy, hoping to spot, hoping to find those who’d yet to enter this infernal abyss (and the list was plentiful – starting with Enna, blending with Enyo, and settling somewhere on the webs of Basin followers, on old friends who hadn’t yet been severed by Kisamoa’s hand). Sometimes the abyss played with his mind though, displayed images and ghosts, recollections of brutality and barbarity, showed reflections of savagery he’d brewed and harpooned (but the last was always a measure of pride – one oath finally followed and fulfilled). He’d scoff at portions, because they weren’t real, and lean away from others, chase after the more familiar edges of darkness, the Stygian pursuits of anarchy and sedition, because it whispered to his ruthlessness instead of bending into his plights, his flaws, his failures. Whether or not he’d fit into this world – with its callous contortions, with its avaricious claws, with its ravenous spoils – would remain to be seen (and he’d be silent, be hushed, about how the acrimonious, vicious forces wove directly into his soul, made him nearly comfortable in the denizens of devils).

A sudden, sharp noise freed him from his narrowed speculations, from the bestial gaze smoldering in the dark – his head twisted in the direction of the outcry, movements stilled. Orsino remained by his feet, nearly vanished into the threads and background of sable parlors, and then together they were a beacon of curiosity and ignition, incensed by the stoked decadence, by the rush of stop and what needed to cease, by the notion of other heathens and monsters lurking amidst the void. They followed the murky cauldrons and the onslaught of doldrums, but couldn’t quite catch any other sound – so when the strange, slightly familiar scent wafted into his nares, they embarked on a similar path, embarking deeper and deeper into the unknown. He didn’t care anymore – his nature inclined towards more iniquitous ventures, by the wild, untamed contortions of inquiry, by the hauntings of who it could be and why they’d screamed. The General just hadn’t expected Rhiannon to come out of the mist.

The familiar lines of Basin ties sent a hush of reverence through him, and he called out to her, a piece of his father’s past, a tie to soldier munitions and phantom vibes. “Rhiannon,” the once-prince uttered, threw into the makeshift world of wraiths and entanglements. He was glad to see her, another one of the cold north, capable of surviving, of making it out alive, of not being obliterated by tricksters and dastardly wakes. “Are you all right?” The youth called out again, shifting slightly closer, towards the reach of her stride but no more, features guarded, brow furrowed, inclined in a note of concern. Had she been the one to scream out into the chasm? Was she in need of assistance? Were there more things crawling through the gulf?


nothing satisfies
but I'm getting close



image credits

@Rhiannon
Rhiannon
Currently championing:
#5
                                                   
           
There would be none that she would expect to encounter in this land that she had been shit out into.

Rhiannon's mood had darkened considerably from the after effects of whatever had just happened, heart crippled and heavy, pace brisk from the desire to just get the hell out of there and never look back. Never would she expect to meet another. Never would she even think of happening to cross paths with one she might know, one she might recognize and who might, on the off chance, remember northern mountains and frozen lakes tucked in the recesses of the world, unwelcome to outsiders and prying visitors alike.

All she knew was that when she spotted him, a blight of darkness against a similarly dark world, the devil halted. Froze. Stared. Paralyzed, muscles coiled and taut with tension, flesh quivering upon ever curve of brindled musculature. Waiting. Preparing. A trick, her paranoid mind supplied in a voice that sounded oddly like Crowley's incessant ramblings, he isn't real. He isn't real, Nonnie. He isn't REAL. RUN.

"... Erebos." His name was emitted upon the gravel of a whisper. Salvation on her tongue and redemption when he did not disappear before two-toned irises. He had grown. Oh, how he had grown, and she could see so much of his father in him. His father... Deimos had not been lost among the slaughter, but seeing his princely son here, all dark and glistening and iconic perfection did not soothe the brindled's addled mind. It did not assuage her torn heart. It did nothing except drive the stake further into her breast, cementing the fact that this was not home and that their mountains were forever gone.

Finally, after far too many moments of tension, the coil of panic, of the need to act dissipated, leaving the proud mare standing still but compliant. She allowed her eyes to soak in Erebos' form, roaming him, assessing and remembering and memorizing. Even if this was an illusion, it was a damn good one, and she wouldn't be the first in her family to have lost their mind.

Then, he showed concern. Concern. For her. Erebos showed concern, his features twisted with worry for her, and Rhiannon was undone.

"No," the dark beast bemoaned, damning her stubborn pride to the sticking place and hoping to never see it again, "No, Erebos. I'm not alright. I... I am lost." And she meant that in so much more than the simple meaning of the word. "This land is vast and strange and I've already been molested by mists and shadows, and I just..." Her voice croaked and cracked and Rhiannon trailed off, struggling to formulate the words that so desperately needed to be spoken. "I don't know where to go. Are there others? Here, I mean. In this land. Are there others of the Basin here?"

Please. Please.


@Erebos
Erebos
Currently championing:
#6
E R E B O S

There was tension riddling, crackling, infusing the air, conspiring, twisting, contorting it so the makeshift patterns of his regal essence burned, simmered, against his skin. His brow arched at her silence, body still, rigid, composed for battle when it should’ve been aligned for only gallantry and knightly chains, expecting something like acrimony in the face of malice, in the carnivorous wake of madness. Perhaps she failed to remember him, and this sojourn had been for nothing – another one who didn’t want to bother with his bestial creation (his ineptitude, his stupidity, his idiocy). Maybe the Rift had already taken its shots with her, poured out all the memories, all the justification, and left only her core behind – a shell, a vessel, of what was once Rhiannon (and already he wanted to fight that insipid notion, grind his jaw, tell her to battle, to wage war against the inhumane, ridiculous world carved out before them).
 
Then, just as quickly, she murmured his name and the acrimonious vibe departed; her frame relaxed, and so did his – muscles no longer seething, no longer eager, fervent, ready to chase down the puissance pulsing through his veins. But she wasn’t all right. None of them were, truly. They’d all been flung into the gates of hell and asked to learn about it, court it, funnel and burrow their way through the darkest tunnels, beg and plead for their lives, remember why they’d been called down into the throngs, into the dungeons, and act like they should be grateful for it. He’d wanted to yell and scream and bellow so many unholy things into this damned void – but he’d bended and blended into it instead, a maneuvering blade, a Machiavellian cutlass, biding, awaiting, the time he and his fellow conspirators could strike. It could take eons, it could take lifetimes; he was patient, he was composed, he was controlled, longing, yearning, relishing in the day where his knife could slide through Kisamoa’s neck. Rhiannon was lost, stuck into the chasm like the rest of them, but at the very least, she wasn’t alone. “We all are,” he spoke, clear and kind, a compassionate glint in his piercing eyes, placing valor before the savagery, comfort before the nefariousness. Then the prince glanced back into the shadows, stare tracing over their foundations, the eerie, eldritch sway of asp-like mist, curtains of Stygian angles and Tartarean guile. It festered and bled over the scenery, wretched and distinct, and he wanted to do away with all of it (find Enyo, find Enna, find everyone else and destroy everything in his path).
 
She asked about others, and his skull turned back to her, a small smile beckoning over his lips, because he could afford her some solace with this particular venue of knowledge. “Yes,” the youth answered at first, a bit of a tease, a ruse, stuck along his eyes, impish and light, before starting again, granting her more than just the bare minimum, struggling to laugh in a world of belligerence and the treacherous unknown. “Most of us arrived together – Rikyn, Weaver, Oizys, Gwyn, Mortuus Nox, Glacia, Wessex, Tiamat, Lena…,” he trailed off, reciting their names like poetry, like stanzas, for they’d been the life force of the Basin, and would be again. “There may have been others who came later. I’ve been trying to catch any stragglers,” and his grin appeared once more, a little more rogue, a little more ruffian, a little more saddened, disheartened, by the plight they faced every second of every infernal day. “Is there someone you’re looking for in particular?” Erebos understood, comprehended, the meaning of losing - a soul, a friend, a loved one – and proffered guidance to his comrades when he could. “I can help, if you’d like.”



nothing satisfies
but I'm getting close



image credits

@Rhiannon