Three long days, and three longer nights, passed with the island standing as still as a statue. But who was left to say what time had truly passed? The sun refused to move, plunging the world into ever lasting day. The hourglasses were no longer reliable, for they seemed to rush one minute and delay the next.
But finally, finally, something began to change.
It started with a rumble, deep in the center of the island. The waves on the beach shuddered, but did not yet crash; the trees swayed in the aftershocks, then fell back to silence. But the sand alone continued to crawl.
It shifted like a serpent, gleaming pale and golden beneath the persistent sun. And even when no one walked across its uneven surface, it formed by itself the shape of hoof prints - a single set, traversing the entirety of the island. Hoof prints that seem to laugh at their own ruthless joke, for they know not everyone will be brave enough to follow the trail they forge.
But for those who do follow, for those who are brave enough to look magic in the face and laugh at its antics, they will find no easy path. The hoof prints cut through the center of the island, through a section of forest where the vines hang low to the ground and the trees and underbrush grow thick and close. The hoof prints run underneath it all, and its followers must forge a path to follow.
And for those who are persistent, and patient, the forest will open up to reveal a large and sandy clearing. The sun hangs directly overhead here, glistening and shivering in the sky with poorly contained anticipation.
Because there in the center of that meadow, upon a raised bed of sand, is the Relic.
Its diamond center piece shines in the sunlight that anoints it, catching and breaking up the rays into a million incandescent reflections on the ground. The sand around it shimmers, like golden scales that have been stretched out in a circle around it. Power seems to emanate from the Relic, for it glows with a strange and vibrant light that pulses in rhythm like a heartbeat.
More and more spectators arrive, and for a moment it’s uncertain if they are there to witness something great, or to change the world themselves. Perhaps they don’t know which they would choose yet.
But no one steps forward to guard the Relic, no one is around to protect it - the Relic is there for anyone’s taking. Perhaps it doesn’t need protecting, someone mutters nervously, and an uneasy response runs like wildfire through the gathering crowd. Perhaps it protects itself. Perhaps it’s the cause of all this.
As more horses gather on the fringes of the sandy clearing, whispering among themselves in mixtures of wonder and fear and fatigue, one question makes itself apparent.
Surely it can’t be this easy?
Who will make the first move?
Your character has a choice.
This thread will be set up differently than the others! This thread will consist of multiple rounds; your character may reply once each round.
Each round is decision-based. We will give you a set of options for your character to choose from ICly; at the end of the round, a dice roll will be made to determine which options proceed. Even numbers proceed; odd numbers do not. If your character proceeds you may continue to reply; if your character does not proceed, you may not reply to any of the next rounds.
If your character has an unused mollusk shell, golden leaf, or iridescent feather from a previous round, you may use that to automatically proceed once even if your character rolled otherwise. To use this reward, wait until the dice are rolled: if your character does not proceed but you would like to, reply to the next round and add at the bottom of the post which reward you are redeeming.
For this round:
Your character may choose to either stay, or leave. Anyone who chooses to stay will automatically proceed to the next round - all who reply will be eligible for a dice roll reward. In the following rounds, there will be no rewards, only a roll to determine who proceeds.
Please clearly mark your character's decision at the bottom of your post.
Example: @ipomoea has chosen to stay.
Each reply to this thread gives you +1 post in an SWP.
All replies after August 31st, 2019 will not be considered for a RE roll.
Possible rolls and their rewards are as follows (for this round only):
1: +1EXP point
2: 150 signos
3: 200 signos
4: 250 signos
5: 300 signos
6: Silver pools in the hoofprints left on the beach, and along your journey you pick up a thin, brittle horseshoe… This item will allow you to continue to proceed in a future round once after you would normally be eliminated. This follows the same rules as the other spare items, see above.
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
Camillia had had an interesting time in the strange land. Of course every land was still strange to her. But the land here was absolutely still, no birds, no changing. Only her own hoof prints marred the landscape. But wait, there were other hoof prints just ahead of her. She trotted towards them, sniffing the air curiously. But the motionless air gave her nothing, no horses had caused these tracks, or at least recently. Even bowing her head and sniffing the marks themselves, she scented nothing. Now she had a path to follow. Careful not to harm the prints, Camillia followed them. She kept a careful look out for any sort of path.
The trail became difficult at times and she had to struggle not to step in the route of the invisible horse. Jungle closed in around her, trees sprouting from the sand curled around her. Vines and foliage tried to block her path. She pushed forward nonetheless, too interested to be driven away by a few branches in her mane. Emerging into a clearing, Camillia's eye was immediately caught by an interesting item in the very center of the meadow. She began forward, but realized her possible mistake. Plenty of horses had been all over this island, why had this not been taken. Considering the strange path leading here, Camillia paused suspecting some sort of trap. Concentrating, she watched carefully, sniffing the wind and observing the clearing meticulously. She refused to be caught unaware, she decided the best thing to do was wait.
@Camillia stays
STAFF EDIT***
@camillia has rolled a 3! She has been awarded +200 signos.
08-21-2019, 03:54 PM - This post was last modified: 09-06-2019, 01:17 PM by Random Events
She feels like she's been searching for days for this stupid relic. But then, time became a fickle thing when the sun decided not to set any longer.
Her hunting kept coming up short and instead she had come face to face with many strangers. Morrighan especially remembers the hooded woman and the rage she felt with all the woman's secrecy. She just about gave up on the search when she suddenly sees odd hoofprints in the sand. They appear like a horse is walking in front of her, only it's completely invisible. She didn't entirely not believe in ghosts, so this seems to prove their existence (or at least, something was afoot - literally).
Seeing as she has nothing else to do, Morrighan decides to follow the strange prints. Although, she immediately regrets it when they lead through an impossible path. She is forced to go through the forest with low hanging vines and thick underbrush. There is really no path to get through, so she uses her fire magic to try and burn away at some of the crap to get by. For a little while it feels like she's stuck in an abyss of greenery, until finally she arrives at a clearing.
It's a stark contrast to all that she had walked through as the area is entirely open. The sun shone brightly down, illuminating an object in the center. It glitters with temptation on a raised bed of sand and Morrighan squints her eyes in suspicion. It certainly looks like something of significance, but the fact that it's so obviously out in the open made her skeptical. With how long it took her to find this place alone, surely the quest couldn't be that easy.
There is another here, a mare with wings black as night. She seems as wary as Morrighan, but takes a few steps forward before scanning the area. As much as the grullo mare wants to lunge forward and snatch up the relic, she knows better. Her instincts taught her just as well, even if she tended to act on impulse. The island was unpredictable and the last thing she wanted was to look like a fool. She'd let a few others trigger any traps set here before she made her move.
(Morrighan is staying)
STAFF EDIT***
@morrighan has rolled a 3! She has been awarded +200 signos.
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
When the sun stopped, August felt almost relieved.
It only reinforced the idea that this was only a dream, the way he’d been treating it - like a step away from duty and into a story. It meant the faint guilt he harbored for so many days away from the Scarab (and surely the tables were hot, since the island, with so many things to gamble on) could be released, because who could blame any of them for falling for this Wonderland?
It took him a few hours to realize all the other life had vanished, except for the plants, and then he thinks of that awful tree and almost wishes they had, too. After his interlude with Bexley and the shift of birds-to-butterflies, he’d admittedly stopped noticing much for a while, drifting quietly through the jungle like no more than a slant of golden light among the leaves. August had been walking beside a river (he liked to have a guide, some sense of where he was and how to return) and its burbling and the sigh of wind through the canopy masked the sudden cease of insects. Only when it widened into a pool and fell to silence did he pause, and prick his ears, and notice the sweat sheening his back and shoulders.
The game, he’d thought, was changing.
But now it is days later and whatever shift seems frozen, too; it would be tedious, if not for the stories the horses were sharing, rumors of deaths and disappearances. Strange caves and hollow cliffsides, black rock that gleamed like water taking peculiar shapes. By now August had almost forgotten the Relic entirely; other things have caught his interest. Now he only stands with a crowd gathered on the beach that grows larger by the hour, listening, his moon-silver eyes sharp and open for anyone he recognizes.
When the sand begins to tremble and his stance widens and he grits his teeth, as horses shout and the waves suck back and back and the trees shiver like mad beasts under beating flies, August thinks At last. It is here, whatever it is.
His mind doesn’t quite process what happens next; the sand rolls and roils away like a desert-snake and the rest of the world quiets, and then someone spots the footprints.
Of course he follows. He is not the kind of man who bets the tables deep only to fold at the final hand, and he is exactly the kind of boy who grew up on pirate stories and fairytales mixed in with his more practical lessons. Not even Senna and the strange order of the Scarab could keep him from those small guilts and pleasures.
And it is difficult, and tedious, in that path through the jungle, with grabbing vines and tripping ledges and logs that seemed to know exactly where they’d be the most incapacitating. But there are many horses swept up in the story, now, and some have magic and some have weapons and most of them are inventive enough: soon there is a narrow swath being trampled and cut through the jungle.
By the time they reach the clearing he barely remembers that he’s thirsty, that he’s exhausted, that he’s covered in salt and soil. For there is the Relic.
It is nearly too bright to look at; a part of him wants to laugh at the gods’ lack of subtlety. But the rest of him is scanning the loose crowd that’s forming, restless along the treeline. He’s beginning to spot many faces that don’t surprise him - and a few that do.
August is not sure he wants the Relic. But he knows he is feeling…particular about who does wind up with it. Whatever it meant, whatever legends were true, it would come down to power, because things always did. And whoever will hold that power is sure to become relevant to him and the ones he loves.
With a slow inhale, he takes a step forward.
STAFF EDIT***
@august has rolled a 3! He has been awarded +200 signos.
08-21-2019, 07:51 PM - This post was last modified: 09-06-2019, 01:18 PM by Random Events
Played by
RB [PM] Posts: 89 — Threads: 13 Signos: 185
Apolonia is waking up from a strange, strange dream.
As soon as she opens her eyes, it starts to crumble from her grasp. The shifting parts are all vague as clouds, and they slip from her even as she comes awake—heaving a sharp breath, scrambling to remember, her heart pounding in her mouth. A chill clutches her spine from her jaw to her hips. Every heartbeat drags her closer to her feet.
In that strange dream, the sun had moved again. The waves had crashed, the sands had shifted; she had been standing in the middle of the island, and it had warped around her into a cocoon, swirling into so many spirals like the golden ratio, all centered on the place she stood still as a statue. The wind had roared past her, ruffling her hair against her cheeks and legs. All around her the isle was eerily empty. She tried to move, but couldn’t—her legs were locked in the sand as it moved higher and higher like a wave, up against her ankles, then her knees—there was nothing she could do about the wind as it pulled her forelock away from her face and let her third eye into the sun for the first time in weeks.
No matter how much she blinked, in the dream, her eye couldn’t quite get used to the light; it hurt to look through, but for some reason she couldn’t close it, no matter how hard she tried; the longer she looked the worse it was, until the brightness became pain, and the pain became unbearable.
Then she woke up.
The inside of her head goes black-then-white, flashing back and forth in quick succession, and O surges to her feet so sharply she almost slips in the sand.
The sun is not where she left it.
It’s shifted. Slightly, but more than it’s moved in days upon days, and O shudders as she looks up at it, unnerved to the roots of her teeth. Her whole body runs cold. And that’s even before she finally (numbly) moves forward and finds the hoof prints in the sand, moving under the weight of someone or something invisible. She blinks. Hard. But the trail is still there when her eyes flash open again, and O—of all people—is not the person to disregard an omen.
She takes after the ghostly hoofsteps at a rapid canter, and does not stop to think about who might be running ahead of or behind her.
O is one of the first to show up in the clearing, which both surprises and delights her; she lets out a delicious little huff of satisfaction as she draws to a stop just inside the treeline, though not quite close enough to be visible to those who have already arrived. They’re strangers, and she’s careful to look them over thoroughly. Noting their strengths and weaknesses and their varied builds. Noting their hesitation, the way they wait like sitting ducks for the thing to come to them. (Except for the one piece of gold, who looks like he’s starting to think about maybe possibly stepping forward; he reminds her of her dad, for whatever god-forsaken reason, and O grinds her teeth as she looks.)
Her whole body trembles with excitement. The relic, diamond-sharp and diamond-pretty, has sunk a fishhook into her chest and won’t stop pulling—every second she watches makes her hungrier and hungrier. Still no one has moved. Her left shoulder is starting to twitch. Salt burns at the corners of her mouth. Under her forelock, her third eye is coming awake, blinking open against the weight of weeks closed, shedding dirt and tears from the row of thick eyelashes, darting rapidly and almost frantically back and forth as it tries to gain sight through the curtain of her hair. Calm down. The hurlbat sings against her hip. Calm down.
In all this time, the bravest of them has only moved a step, and O’s carnivore heart is snarling louder and louder in search of adrenaline. She braids her forelock back into her mane, and with a noise like breathing the third eye blinks all the way open, wide and sharp and white.
“Lord,” she mumbles to herself, half prayer and half dare, eyes turning up—“All good things come to those who take them.”
With the axe twirling like an inferno at her side, she trots toward the relic, and the eye shines out of her forehead pretty as an offering.
The island is a fever dream; she is the dreamer; but there is no midnight serenade, no nighttime interlude . The dream is a day-dream, and the sun does not set. For three days time does not exist.
It is slightly ludicrous, the tilt of the sun, the stillness of the sea. There is something unsettlingly clear about the sky, and the sharpness of leaves and brush. The grass slants at a certain angle, wildly, mockingly, and everything within the island exists as though off-kilter. Almost, as though, frozen as the day was frozen. Without a breeze. The air is oddly stagnant, especially in the way it smells of thick island humidity, a sweaty, thick, earthy odour. An odour of contradictory natures; the sea, the brine, the soil, the foliage. There are no strange birds now; no glowing luminescence. The wildcats of the past weeks had slunk somewhere into the brush, and disappeared. Fetid. Not quite rotting… not quite… but the island is a corpse left too long in the sun, and something, something must give way.
The mare trots along the beach with all the wild restlessness of a tigress. She is striped and vicious, and the sun beats down upon the slicked copper of her head to make her seem at once monstrous and strange. Her tail lashes her sides, and it is clear the island magic has seeped thoroughly into her blood. The same fever dream exists within her mind, within her heart, and there is a restless beating that propels her forward, forward, forward. To an observer, her searching has lost its beauty. It has, instead, taken on the ragged desperation of starvation: it is an empty stomach within her, growling, craving sustenance. What could possibly fulfil such a void wanting? Such an aching dissatisfaction?
She is blood red and sooty black. She is the sun and the gleam fo garnet and the bars of midnight stripes. She is at once the fire of the day and everything that belongs to the jagged, jet-black cliffs of her homeland. Her hooves meet the water of the sea with the ferocity of a mortal attempting to change fate—her head tosses with the pride of every feral thing, and when she begins to run, it is after the footprints of a god.
Boudika hunts. She does not know what possesses her or why, but the claws of compulsion have etched themselves deeper and deeper into her heart. The compulsion is deep, consuming—and again and again, with increasing intensity:
WHAT favour would you ask a god? What FAVOUR would you ask a god? What favour would you ASK a god?
WHAT FAVOUR
WOULD YOU
ASK A GOD?
And her tongue is dry, her mind is alight with something hopeful, ecstatic, addictive. She would ask him everything: she would ask him for time because more and more she knew, Time was Everything.
And so she runs. She runs with the fear of an animal chased; she runs with the courage of the pursuer, the huntress. She tears through the underbrush and doubles back, finding again and again the weave of the tracks, the trail that will lead her to the end, and the promise of an answer is so tantalising she cannot help herself. The idea—the hope—is such a bright thing she feels seared by it, as though the sun itself is a reflection of her ambition, as though time has stilled for her and she thinks, again and again as she runs and her heart thunders within her chest, I can change the past—
She is there.
She is there.
Breaking through the underbrush, the trees, to stumble panting into a meadow. Sweat foams off her skin. She is terrible action within the fever dream; a picture of startling life, and clarity, and awake. Her crimson eyes are the colour of arterial blood. Her mane sticks to the wetness on her neck, and her haunches nearly drip with the humidity of the still island. She steps forward; and forward still; and there is a young girl, with an ax, and August, with all his golden colour. There are many others she does not know.
But what matters is the relic, gleaming from the center of a sand mound. She steps toward it. Closer. Closer.
And stops.
Because it feels wrong to take from a god.
But she is hungrier than she has ever been before, so she follows the ax-wielding child, a step behind.
When the marks begin to bloom on the sand in circles--
When the island shivers with an aftershock---
When the sun starts to look like it's aching and weary in the sky--
When the air and the island inhale deep enough that it sounds like a sigh---
Thana follows.
The thick weeds and the tangle thorns die at her hooves and her blade cleaves the rest of them from the root. Over and over again she cuts her way though the forest, along those footprints running dizzying circles though the dark woods. Thana devours the forest in death until her horn, and her blade, and her hooves are all sticky and almost golden with sap.
She does not stop until the forest dissolves into the sand. Here the air is thick enough with magic and power that her lungs ache to hold it all in. It feels like home, like drowning, like being torn apart and remade over and over again.
You are a monster. You are made of magic. You are made to tear the world apart in blood. The drops of her blood are singing to her. Each one is chanting another line, another whisper of destruction and suffering and rot. Thana wants to roar with the force of it, with all the black consuming her like a storm cloud.
Her magic hates this magic in the air.
She steps closer and there are no thoughts of relics, or gods, or power whispering seductions to her. There is no bravery, or desire, or hope. There is only blackness, only death, only rot turning all the bloody sap on her horn to drops of rotten, decayed forest. The drops make a map around her, small black constellations on a sea of sand. She does not pause to wonder if they live in some night-sky somewhere else but this terrible world with its terrible false deities.
She does not pause at all.
Thana walks towards that relic, slow and angry and hateful, behind the two mares running before her like she is the real wolf in this world (she knows they are running towards the magic but she knows that they surely do not want to shred it to blood and bone and metal). She does not care, not with all her magic singing of death loud enough to make her whole body ache with the bass echo of it.
Her tail swings a warning. The bone blade whistles, sand and sap arc from it to paint more black constellations on the golden sand.
And when she finally pauses, one hoof in the air like a hunter on a wind-scent, it is only long enough to cock her head at the weight of magic rushing around, and around her like a body she cannot see. Hello, her look seems to say and in the way of true beasts it needs no words. I know you are a monster too.. All magic is always a monster.
Thana's hoof scrapes against the sand and it cuts a line through the golden sand.
When she crosses it---
When her eyes start to blaze a purple dark enough to be black--
When the air that is still trembling whistled through her hollowed out horn--
When the rest of the horses come to the beach and think of gods--
When her magic blood starts to scream---
Thana grinds her teeth like she's already thinking of how metal and diamonds will taste on her tongue.
"Death hath no dominion"
@thana decides to stay
STAFF EDIT***
@thana has rolled a 6! She has been awarded a brittle horseshoe.
08-25-2019, 09:03 PM - This post was last modified: 09-06-2019, 01:20 PM by Random Events
Played by
Sea [PM] Posts: 39 — Threads: 12 Signos: 560
Magic is a thing unheard of in the old testament of the mare. Chronokinesis, invisiblity, the ability to move things with one's mind, these are all things new - new to Emersyn, for such magic did not exist in kinds of stories the soldier grew with. She chose to stay three days ago when she first arrived. On the account of magic, she has chosen to continue her journey deeper into the island, investigating what she can, refusing to admit that it is more of an exploration due to the fact that she has no idea what it is she is looking for. Similarly, she has no clue what drives her to stay knowing that she may find nothing - that she may find her death (or Death Itself). What would she say to something like that, if Death is who she finds. For isn't the keeper of time itself none other but the reaper? The one who chooses whether you are coming, or going?
This isn't for you, turn back Emersyn, turn back now.
Her father's voice irradiates her mind of all present thought. Just before she discovers the hoofprints forming in the sand, she thinks about adhering to Nicolai's advice. Perhaps this is not for her to know. Perhaps there is nothing here at all to be achieved. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. She hates how incomplete the word seems to be. How untold it is. The soldier does not like not-knowing. She has always been that way. Emersyn lags in the shadow of Nicolai's fair warning, turn back? stay? wait?.
...
It is pure ass luck that she accidentally drops her hair pin into the sand. Not realizing her own magic, she leans down and reaches for it - and that is when she sees hoofprints forming on their own in the sand. Azureous eyes look on incredulously as the rings continue to move forward and away from her on their own path. "What is this?" Emersyn questions with intrigue, and to no one in particular - for the soldier has chosen to walk alone. Before she knows it she is walking with the footsteps, not away from them. As if in a spell, they take her away from the shivering sea and the quaking sands she has barely begun to fathom the stillness of.
They lead her into the shade of the lush trees and deep into a wilderness she has never imagined before. She has never imagined much quite frankly, and despite her overwhelming feelings of doing everything that comes unnaturally for her she carries on. Thick and green and full of life, the jungle is suffocatingly rich with flora and not much fauna (much to the young woman's relief). But what else may lay in the wake of such an easy journey? Emersyn awaits it fully with mental preparedness, physical duress, and tactical reasoning; logic flew the coop days ago, when the sun first defied the stars, days ago.
Emersyn comes to a standstill, gated off by roping vines and the fat trunks of ancient elder trees. The rank of wet, hot soil does nothing to help her fortell of ways to get around her obstacle. She will not give up, although with no knife or sword to cut her way through - no magic (that she knows of) either - the chances of being left behind grow more apparent. The soldier watches the hoof prints progress through the muddle as she is left behind.
"W-wait for me!" That is ridiculous Emersyn! Who are you talking to? She cannot tell if it is Nicolai who chides her or if she is reminding herself not to be so ridiculous.
Frustrated, the woman rears up and cuffs the first set of vines with her hooves as if she is going in for a fight. If it is anything like the trainers that fought with her, they'll be better off staying out of her way. The vines come apart with enough force from the mare's powerful limbs. The rest she tears at with sharp, hard teeth when she can. Some she stubbornly presses through - even when the jungle aims to make a quarry out of her by tangling her up in unimaginable ways.
It takes too long to get where she wants to be. It is almost as if the jungle is trying to protect the new comer, as if it knows by now that Emersyn may not be the One to understand what it is that she may find. The wood holds her back with a promise, a promise of safety, a promise of comfort - comfort from whatever disturbing truth that lies in the beyond, the unknown. Little does this jungle, this island, this sea which surrounds them like black around a star know, that all of it will not contain Emersyn. It will not keep her safe. It will not comfort her. For she will tear through it all with tooth and claw and sheer will. She will not be surrendered. She will not be forbidden to the riches of the new world in which she lives in.
By now, perhaps the footsteps have found the way back to their owner? Emersyn rolls her eyes at her own thoughtless wondering. It is just enough of a personal aggravator that she breaks free of the natural restraint. The velocity of her well-muscled weight against the sudden give of the vines sends her stumbling like a fool into a clearing where she is no longer alone with herself. A quick scan of the area reveals many other horses gathered here today - perhaps lead by their own phantom footsteps. Each one of these people following (or finding) their own path - the same way they walk through life. In any which direction they go, it always leads to death in the end, doesn't it?
"What is this?" she asks anybody, everybody. Her deep blue eyes fall to Relic resting quietly in the very center of the dell. Like so many others, the black and silver grullo with the white face does not advance on the artifact. It is not fear that holds her back (and certainly not vines, not this time) - but respect - even if it feels alien and displaced when she tries to understand why she feels this way. This is a new testament, Emersyn believes to herself. In leaving the old world she has died. And a cold, tired world she has left behind if this one can be so nourishing and fortifying to her decaying soul. In death there is rebirth, however, and Emersyn thinks that this may be something possible, for even her.
I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream // I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam // And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem // But if I know you, I know what you'll do // You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream
It's not much in Lucinda's nature to pay attention to the matters of others. Due to this, she does not keep up with rumors and gossip as she simply has better things to do. However, the more she had heard of this relic, the more intrigued she became.
She has been exploring the island for a little while now, seeking out its treasures and potential. For the most part, the woman came up empty handed and it was beginning to seem like she fell for a lie. That is- until the footsteps appeared.
They belong to no one, so it's clear that some kind of magic is at play. Is this someone playing her for all the times she played them? Is this something out of a dream? Perhaps she is dreaming as she decides to follow.
Lucinda moves slowly as she is in no rush. It appears the path before her is not an easy one, so she takes her time using her staff to clear the brush. It's only somewhat helpful and so she uses her horns several times to knock away the stubborn vines. Halfway through she begins to regret deciding to take on this feat, but she was never known to be a quitter. Lu is persistent and keeps making her way through until finally- she sees it.
A group is huddling around something within a large clearing. The never-setting-sun beats down and illuminates an object in the center. After all this time, the rumors must be true and the relic is here.
She sees no familiar faces here, but this is of no surprise. She knows very few by name and vice versa, so she would rather keep it this way. Still, Lu watches with amusement as a few inch closer to the relic, giving in to the temptation. She isn't entirely sure what the relic's purpose is, but surely it couldn't be this easy to obtain. Otherwise, someone had a sick sense of humor and wanted to see them kill each other for a shiny object. It's not far off from something she would do, so she doesn't fault the one behind this.
It's for this reason that she does not act just yet. Using her peripherals, she keeps tabs on the surroundings and those gathered. She has no use for a relic, but she's itching for some action. Even if she doesn't come up the winner in the end, the satisfaction of beating the shit out of some strangers is enough.
The big question is - who will be the first target?
Once upon a time, Kassandra lived in an ivory tower. Her windows bore bars and she could just barely peek her head out to look down at all the creatures toiling away below, smaller than insects from her high vantage point. If not for being a prisoner, and so tormented by her captors, her nightmarish visions, and her loneliness all at once, she may have felt powerful. In an unfortunate turn of events, for all her time spent alone, Kass never really did develop a skill for imagination; she knew too little of the world to enjoy fantasy, and, instead, had a craving for reality, for truth, and discovery, and the concrete.
She wonders now as she looks up at the glaring sun, Silverite eyes squinting against the spear-like beams which come hurtling downwards, if perhaps there was someone, or something, just like her, entombed in the golden heat. Maybe there was a person locked in their gilded tower staring down at them and thinking of their smallness; maybe, unlike Kassandra, this entity did feel the power from their position above what seemed to be all creation. Maybe that was why they suspended the sun in the sky as they did. Or maybe they, too, were a prisoner, deprived of the touch of the outside world, and desired to know what was real, and true, and locking the glorious orb in position was their way of shining light on things to discover the answers to their needling questions.
Something brushes against her hocks and for a moment, in her exhausted state, Kass thinks it's Oculos, rolling over on his back to itch himself in the sand; it is only when the sensations continue that she looks down and realizes it is the sand. It is shifting and forming as though it is being walked across by an equine, but of its own accord. Kass stretches out her neck and a swirl of golden dust stretches up in turn and brushes against her muzzle, causing her to sneeze.
She turns to look at Oculos, who has come up alongside her. He sits, tight on his hindquarters, long tail wrapped around his paws, ears perked in curiosity (one only lifts halfway and flops over at the tip, as always). A look passes between them, a mental shrug understandable only by each other. Blinking through apprehension and sleep deprivation, Kassandra lumbers forward, following the path which is set before her.
The hoofprints lead her on a tricky road through dense underbrush and low-hanging vines; though, to Kassandra, who has already had a difficult time passing through the foliage, it is just another day in the jungle. By the time she wedges herself underneath the thick tendrils and powers through the almost impenetrable greenery, she is twice as tired as she was at the start, covered in verdant growth seemingly from ear-tip to tail, and her star-covered pelt is marred by stinging, red scratches.
At first, she does not recognize the relic and stares at it with a squinty, worn-out curiosity. She has the vague conception of others gathering around her but pays them no mind as she continues to try and puzzle out what this mysterious thing she discovered might be. Its beauty is breathtaking, and she wants little more than to move forward and touch it; others have already moved forward. She recognizes August, who had the poor luck of stumbling over her mid-fit deep in the heart of the forest; the other two are strange and fantastic, with fiery weapons and bright golden marking laced into their pelts. Someone nearby poses the question they must all be thinking, in some version of another, but Kass is too tired to answer.
Something is missing within her, she realizes; the golden-striped mare, the mare with the flaming ax, even August, all have some sort of nigh-deranged, hungry look in their eyes. Kassandra does not feel the same. She is tired. She is hot. She wants to go home. She wants to sleep under the stars and feel the coolness of night. She feels long, lonely, and empty. And so, building within her, instead of the deep desire to obtain, is a rage, a diamond-white rage built through immense pressure and heat. She wants nothing more than to smash the idol and return everything to normal.
Despite her weariness, however, Kass is not quite so large a fool. She exhales heavily through her nostrils and waits, perched on the same nervous edge as those around her.
ooc // kass is staying
STAFF EDIT***
@kassandra has rolled a 4! She has been awarded +250 signos.
08-29-2019, 12:09 PM - This post was last modified: 09-06-2019, 01:21 PM by Random Events
