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Fallen Joy

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Fallen Joy last won the day on May 20 2014

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About Fallen Joy

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  1. Ferrah, not a conversationalist, continued to follow the group along the snowy track in silence. Her pepper and salt locks shifted in the icy breeze, and she brushed a bit of snow from her hip. After spending a good six months of guarding an ice-breed dragon, whose very radiance turned her prison into a winter wonderland, the mountains' frigid atmosphere wasn't too bothersome. After riding Akul for several days, she welcomed stretching her legs. Ferrah stayed in the nearby vicinity of the group but explored the outskirts for tracts of winged beasts. A mark on a tree or scat on the dirt, Ferrah investigated it all as they adventured. The flora was different from Lagrimosa, the underbrush more bitter, and the stems a little sweeter. Ferrah spits out a piece of root. That one made her tongue tingle. They reached a dense wood, dusted in white with a glittering understory of weaving sunlight through the canopy. Ferrah watched the shimmer rings of amber flicker on the group, listening with no mind to Drauner frolic through the trees like the missing link. She also climbed a tree but did not play. Reaching the top of the canopy, she gazed over the mountainside, looking for a cavern or orifice in the distance. She measured the miles and estimated the time it would take at their pace. Her crimson eyes focused more, looking for a spark of cornish yellow gliding amongst the peaks. Akul wasn't in sight. Whenever the lazy lizard decided to track her, it may be challenging to locate them or hear her whistle if they trekked too far. Taking a dagger from her sash, she pressed the sharp curve against her palm. Her muscles bulged and tensed; it took a lot of force to pierce their skin. The surface pain receptors of the Tyrvtol Tribe burned away long ago from generations in a volcano, so it was only when the thing rivulets of coal-tinted maroon blood appeared that she felt the sting of pain. She flexed her hand a few times to increase the circulation, then rubbed the hot liquid on the rubbery pines. The dragon would pick up the scent if it searched the area; she'd have to remember to do this every few miles they traveled. To be honest, she'd also welcome some other bloodthirsty creature's enticement of her scent. She was itching to fight. Ferrah descended to the rest of the group, flicking a bit of foliage from her hair as they continued on.
  2. Happy New Year, all!! Just doing a post-check! Almost on round three 😁
  3. "Quite a strong grip. I'm sure you will fight well." Ferrah grinned a tusky grin, giving her chest a single beat of her fist and firmly nodding. Vivian's quick ambiguity to culture was appealing. The she-orc respected fervor and tenacity. Perhaps this soft-fleshed female would be a good battle companion after all. However, this first-impression twists ugly when instead of pushing off to adventure, Vivian's turns to address the rest of the group. Ferrah glances over the mage's head as if noticing the rest for the first time. They introduced themselves. One flirted. She listens to the backwater conversation and meaningless courtship; her combustible temper ignites a few sparks. She gnawed the inside of her cheek in annoyance. This was the same empty stack of dragon crap that peeved her about the witches. The Tyrtrol tribe warred, labored, and occasionally screwed when it served their emotions. But they never wasted time. Ferrah turned her carmine sneer down, seeing the tome in Vivian's hand. Then the triggering word 'magic' left the mage's lips. So, she used it too. Just like the witches. The acid in Ferrah's belly thickened, so ratchet that the she-orc thought holes could burn through her stomach. She knew the woman wasn't one of her witches, as the thought of lopping off her head came without hesitance, but Vivian must have been from the same breed. Or some knock off of it. "Tsk." She popped her tongue off the top of her mouth in disgust. She wasn't being fair to Vivian, for the mage was simply appealing to the group for teamwork. However, Ferrah was enslaved by magic users and held prejudice of the highest sort. The sidebar conversation only lasted a minute, but Ferrah was already in the foulest moods when Vivian addressed her again. The she-orc exhaled a thick white from her flaring nostrils and tightly crossed her arms. Name? Trust? Goals? Why did they need to know such, again, trivial things? She doesn't reply and waits for the mage to say something worth responding to. "As for where the dragon is…" Finally. "I would guess a nearby cave." Ferrah glances into the mountains. She imagined the hills were full of cavernous orifices. If Akul wasn't resting, she could use his flight and sense of smell to make greater leeway. For now, she would be stuck with this group. She digs one of her claws into her bicep. So be it. Ferrah follows Vivan out of the town, kicking over a random stack of tavern storage boxes as she did so. The sound of splintering crates made her feel better. To the rest of them, she simply did not like its existence.
  4. I’ll try to get a post in Wednesday night or Thursday. Sorry for that wait
  5. Deeper into the heart of the darkness, in the grotesque nest of the monster, crimson eyes leer at a hanging cocoon of ichor in the canopy. It displays like a chandelier amongst the trees. Between the black bits, peach tinted flesh and emerald locks protruded in protest. Coral lips hang agape, little trickles of ebony seeping from the corners. The abomination grasps the ornament with its clas, and a gnarled tongue licks the whole surface. Mmm. Your soul ripens as more of your sisters die. Those you failed to protect. You will lose them all, as you did before, because of your weakness. Another wanders the darkness to save you, kills her own for you. You've only yourself to blame for their blood. The black cocoon doesn't respond. Deep inside, tears moisten closed lashes. Give in now. Seek into despair and give me your soul now. I promise to let her live, and you will feel nothing. More silence, and then the ichor spreads a little more on the exposed pieces of flesh. Yes. Yes, give in. Back in the dark grove of night flora, Alexandria reaches through the coven soul. Through the communication of souls, a coven skill all the sisters could do in times of distance and solitude, the crimson witch should have been able to reach her coven leader. However, there was a cold flicker in Luna's soul fragment. A solemn and sluggish lawl through pessimism, as if the binding webs of depression threaded through her being and readied her for the spider's fangs. Then Alexandria's fragment touches hers, just for a moment, and brightness returns. This same luster illuminates from inside the cocoon, and a portion of it bursts away. The creature hisses as its large eyes now reflect the stare of shimmering mauve hued defiance. It could not understand why Luna's soul would not detach despite its intoxication by the darkness. It must have been that collective it felt. I'll get your soul, witch...And you'll feel so much more misery before I do. …. The blades of Eltab and Bale clash, eyes meeting in a brutal war of vigor. In a different tale, where they weren't just side-characters in a more remarkable story, they'd fight until lassitude prevailed or they killed one other. Natasha didn't have time for that. From the flank, she attacked, forcing Bale to retreat lest his head is cleaved off. Together the demon and Natasha assaulted the warrior. True to his high-classed position in the orc army, he fought them both tooth and tail through the night. The more his body was marked with a blade, the more the black ichor leaked. Mistakes came inevitably from the cauldron of his exhaustion, Natasha's acrobatics, and Etlab's massive force. His adrenaline-filled body was tenacious to the blades but eventually wet with weariness. "So fucking help me, Bale!" Natasha yelled with infuriated frustration as Bale parried her gauntlet, then backflipped over the swiping swing of Etlab. Bale landed, but his fatigue took a brief hold, and he stumbled back into a trunk. Natasha rushed forward. She had an opportunity at that moment; Bale's neck exposed as he regained his composure. She could have ended his life right then and there. Something buried within her suddenly protested. Suddenly, she felt the bonds between Sarra and Alexandria consuming her. As if a sliver of Sarra said no. Her mind suddenly saturated with the poison of kinship with her fellow orc. Loyalty. Brethren. Compatriots. "Fuck!" She yelled, turning her fist, so the metal's flat end collided with Bale's trachea instead. He chokes, the induced spasms blocking his much-needed oxygen. "I don't want to kill you!" Natasha breathes out harshly. Bale looked at her, bewildered as he gasps and stumbles. Natasha grabs him by the shoulders, brings him close, and slams her armored-knee deep into his stomach. "Throw!" She knees him again. "The hell!" And again. "UP!" She knees him thrice more times until finally Bale can't take it and vomits. He collapses to his knees, dropping the sword as grotesque blood and ichor spill from his mouth into a puddle on the ground. Natasha stood there heaving heavily, her fists trembling-tight on her gauntlets. Suddenly the ichor surrounding Bale melts from his muscles as if their tethering anchor is gone. Bale stays there for a moment, struggling to breathe against his burning throat and convulsing stomach. After a moment, he speaks in a raspy voice. "Why...didn't you...kill me?" Natasha narrows her eyes, lips in a flatline. "I don't know," she responds honestly. "Heh…" he chuckles weakly. "Witches are...making you soft." He then falls to his side, unconscious. The she-orc silently grabbed him, and with a small grunt, laid his back against a tree trunk. His chest moves; he is still alive. "Probably." She says, and then looks to Etlab. "You fight well. Not many can take Bale. Let's go back to Alexandria." As if on cue, Alexandria finds them. Natasha can look her in the eye and offer a half-cocked grin, for her nervous energy dissipated in her fight. "He'll be hurting, but he'll live. Was right. Orcs have no souls, so this...gunk consumes mind through body. Leave him here. We should keep going."
  6. Natasha pierces through the thicket and into the luminescent glow of the flowers but is too late. She witnesses powerlessly as an anguished, obligated Alexandria plunges her obsidian blade into Sarra's heart. There isn't a splatter of gore but the sullen silence of Death's scythe. As Sarra is plowed through her sternum, the banshee suddenly freezes, eyes widened with the crimson stain of madness for several seconds. Black ichor leaks into a glowing puddle around her back. As she bleeds out, her alabaster body paradoxically regains color; a pale peach casts over her skin, ink locks set in like the night, and dark sea tones rekindle in her gaze. In a cloud of white, a deep final exhale flows like the remnants of her soul into the cold. In her last moments of life, she gapes into Alexandria's tearful irises; a hand reaches up and cups her cheek softly. She offers a gentle, genuine smile. Then, with a fall of her hand and bow of her lashes, she is dead. Natasha falls still, a bitter sense of failure overcoming her. She cannot see the whole of Alexandria's face, but the way the flora lights reflected so smoothly on her exposed cheeks and jawline, the witch was unquestionably wet with sorrow. The she-orc doesn't know what to say, so she is quiet. "....." Suddenly, a fragment of life ignited within the Coven's Soul, filling the collection with its warm embrace. It is similar to Stella, but before the emptiness of its departure occurs, something astonishing happens. Instead of drifting away into the void, its orbits entwines with Alexandria's. Hybridization is a familiar concept, but this feels more profound and intense as if the braiding of souls sought to become permanent. Then Alexandria would feel a rush of magic, like a wind flowing from her body and into the physical realm. "Alexandria…" The voice is clearly Natasha's, but her deep voice, normally stoic with emotional stiffness, possesses a cadent gentle tone. Natasha comes before her in an unusual glide. There a thunk, and her bladed gauntlets fall to the earth. It is so rarely done that there is a subtle innocent jade within the bare hands and wrists' of her charcoal skin. Her palm is upturned, asking for Alexandria's hold. "Will you dance with me, Sister?" When Alexandria looked up, the she-orc was cascaded with a new aura. Her once ruby eyes were now a sapphire blue, shimmering like said jewels. The wrinkles and trenches in her skin, formed from years of frowns and snarls, were smoothed with a delicate expression. She had a loving, calm, and welcoming smile, creating a strange unveil of charming femininity. In the time it took Alexandria to be surprised, then perhaps recognize the magic of her Sister's soul possessing the vacant soulless shell of the orc, Natasha grasps her wrist, pulling the crimson witch not only to her feet but close to her body. Her hand encountered the small of Alexandria's back whilst the other entwined within her fingers. "Dance with me." Then, as if caught in the entrancing seductions of the rumba, the she-orc took the crimson witch through the lights of pedals in a beautiful dance. In gentle twirls, they frolicked on the stage of northern lights. The she-orc possessed the witch's limbs into the currents of her hands flowing against her body's curves and insistence of her lead. If Alexandria allowed her vulnerability to guide her into the calls of the Coven's Soul, she'd find her physical body suddenly unburdened from armor and flesh. As if the bouquet lights around them ascended their floral bodies, the aphotic world was bathed in the multi-chromatic hues of galaxies. She'd feel the entire coven's magic embracing her. It was as if they were dancing upon the very orbitals of the Coven's Soul. In the midst of their juxtapose, Natasha brings space between their bodies and spins Alexandria in a blossom of crimson. As the motion ends and the orc pulls her close, Sarra now holds her. Do not despair, my Sister. Her beautiful voice rings around them as their very souls continue to dance within the heart of the CS. I thank you for setting me free from despair. Sarra bends back, enticing Alexandria's soul to hold her as her slender legs rose into the air for a beautiful pose. You must know that Luna is alive. She returns to Alexandria's face, rekindling their rhythmic motions. But she is trapped in a casket of darkness. The creature uses her to control the shadows of the forest. She believes us lost, and it breaks her will to fight his lust for her soul. You must set her free. Sarra ceases their dance to places her small hands onto Alexandria's cheeks. It also now sees our haven of magic and wishes to possess it. I felt It touch the storm. It will use Luna, whose soul fragment is the greatest. She smiles sadly. I know you are worn, but you will not win this battle if our other Sisters remain banshees. You must release them from the black ichor. This task will threaten to tear your soul from us. So, I leave you with a gift. A reminder that even in Death, your Sisters are here with you to give nothing but strength. She wraps her arms around Alexandria's body. Hold me close. If Alexandria held her, Sarra's body became bright. On the outside, Natasha was surrounded in an arcane glory. Sarra's soul and orbit suddenly combine with Alexandria's, and a new rejuvenated power encompasses her. The magic of her Sister witch, along with her devotion and love for her coven, merges within her. Blessed Be. The realm of the Coven Soul fades, and Alexandria returns to her body, holding Natasha. "Mmm," the she-orc places a clawed hand over her forehead, shaking away her mind's haze. She felt her heart race and her mind flood with emotions she never experienced before. Natasha felt and witnessed it all transpire in a surreal distal sense--down to Sarra's very emotions. It was...an indescribable experience. She blinks her crimson eyes a few times before focusing on Alexandria. "Are...you alright?" She asks, her voice soft and mildly confused. There is a small quiver in her hands before she abruptly lets Alexandria go and back-ups. Part of her, the fraction hot with pride, wanted to be angry that Sarra possessed her. Still, the esoteric version of her mind that had emotions for Alexandria and explores the witches' bond embraces the experience. Caught between the tearing influence of each, she thrashes her head like a wet dog. "I have an idea," she suddenly says. "To free Bale." Then as if running from the event's impact, she grabs her gauntlets and rushes into the darkness. Bale and Eltab were stubborn skillful warriors that lived for battle. Knowing the orcs, Natasha was previously convinced the only way to save Bale would be to slay him. But there was something Sarra said that imprinted on her mind. You must release them from the black ichor. Natasha couldn't help but recall their Banshee forms reversing as the black ichor leaked from their wounds: Stellestria's head and Sarra's chest. Natasha herself was almost possessed by ingesting it. She couldn't see color in the darkness, but she'd bet the blood she spilled from him was black. If enough of it leaked, the tenacity of the orc might allow him to regain his senses before death took him. At least long enough for his enslaved obligations of the witches to take hold. The witches had something stolen from them; the orcs just had something fill an empty space. She followed the sounds of the battle and the guide of her night vision. It didn't take her long to enter their area, fastening her gauntlets' finals ties as she did so. Bale was covered in much more wounds. Though he stood obstinately against the demon, loaded by the pleasure it too gave him, he likely lost much stamina. If they could only get one big gush… "Ox thing!" She yelled out, not knowing its name or species. "Strike him in the gut, make him vomit!" Of course, she wouldn't just order. Natasha, eager to get herself back to normal, was ready to enter the fray as well.
  7. Hope everyone enjoyed the turkey holiday! It's been about nine days since the last post. Got a lot of people; can we get an eta from whoever is next?
  8. Dyrim rings a second time, attempting to silence the banshee. Its ring hits her with its glory, and though Sarra's screams did cease, her assault did not. Her bleached claw clashes with the golden armor, sparks bursting like flint to steel. Sarra becomes relentless, striking again and again, eyes flaring with anguish and anger to match her expression of madness. Alexandria manages to unsheath her sword, the banshee now striking it without mercy. "I'm sorry, sister, I cannot save you this time." "No one can save me!" Her lips cry through her misery. "No one wants to save me! Luna abandoned me! You'll abandon me! Let me sink into the cold waters of apathy!" Then spontaneously, through the gateway of blood between them, a horned minotaur demon births from the depths of her magic. It's presence alone forces the banshee back from her assault. Instead of protecting the witch, though, it turns towards assisting Natasha. The banshee readily argued her tunnel-visioned assault with the ruthless slashes. The orcs were well into the darkness at this point, the little light of flowers unable to stage their wild battle. Natasha's charcoal skin was shining with liquid, her gauntlets equally dripping with crimson jewels. She panted heavily, absolute rage flaring within her eyes. On the other side of her, Bale whipped his sword to the side, flinging off the excess blood from his blade. His grin widened, despite the rivery leaking from a gash on his temple. A sadistic thrill shivered throughout his bulky sinews. Natasha usually would feel this exhilaration from such an intense battle, down to the desirous burn of her loins, but knowing her defeat's cost smoldered that flame into smoke pregnant with determinations and anxiety. The thunderous roar of the demon blasted through the dark, Eltab invading into their colosseum. Both orcs dodge the vast slash of the beast. Having never seen a summon from Alexandria before, Natasha thought it was another obstacle set by the unknown villains. Rolling immediately to her feet, she readied for a change against the new opponent. She'd fight an army if she had to. However, her glowing crimson eyes widened a hair in the dark when the ox continues its rampage solely against Bale. The possessed orc dodged the assault, leaping back and sifting through wider gaps in the trees. Bale was pushed back into the dense shadows to escape the blade's waves of infinite swings, allowing thick trunks to buffer force. Splinters flew through the air. With the collisions came a pause, and the skillful orc flashed through the trees with his superior night vision. As the demon ended a fierce slash, Bale came into his peripheral with deadly finesse. Bale's blade descended down, aiming for the base of Eltab's weapon wielding arm. Natasha appeared over the demon's shoulder. With an uppercut motion, she caught the sword between her blades, deflecting the attack up with her dominant arm, and then slashing the other against Bale's exposed side. The orc immediately backed off, the she-orc flipping in front of the demon. Bale slammed his free hand to his side, blooding leaking between his digits. This gave the demon sufficient time to withdraw his weapon from the trees. Natasha glanced over her shoulder at Eltab, knowing it had to be Alexandria's doing. As fun as it would have been to tag team with a demon, Natasha has other things in mind. She wasn't about to let Alexandria stain her blade with her own Sister's blood, especially if that was what the creature wanted. It wanted her heart black; Natasha's was already soaked deep in blood. She'd do what Alexandria asked and slay Sarra. "I'll leave you to it," she says. Natasha left the demon's side to return to Alexandria. Bale watched Natasha leave, then looked to Eltab, the pain in his side already dulled under the adrenaline, as he twirls his blade once in his hand. He grins. "I'll enjoy cleaving your horns for my collection." He then roared and rushed intrepidly at Eltab. Though the sheer size of the demon was overwhelming, the orc's signature strength held true. Etlab and Bale exchanged blade to blade in the dark, their clang distancing from Natasha's ears as she rushed back towards Alexandria and the banshee; before Alexandria had to commit a horrible sin.
  9. Cecilia grasps the cold steel hilt within her palm, her coral lips curved into the softest of smiles to Tyveres' words. Though his rare compliments normally flustered and teased her focus, they now fell upon deaf ears. The blade, as sleek and slivery as a glimmering fish beneath the stars, reflected beautifully in her sapphire gaze. Her fingertips brushed the chestnut leather; the deadly weapon suddenly felt so misplaced within her hands. Her stomach twinged with acid; she imagines the silver radiance stained in man's blood. Her fingers tremble. She directed herself on this pathway, driven by her father's violence, the fear of her kidnapping, and the shock of the truth. Cohersed from innocence to sin by the rape of reality, she acknowledged her chosen path to patricide would continue to be dark, but now that she was so close to the consequence, she didn't want to take another step. Her mind felt like a broken record of torment, spinning and spinning around this concept until she felt nauseated. There just had to be another way, but how? "There's no point in hiding further. Come out now!" The princess was thrown from the belly of her ravenous thoughts. She jerked her head up in time to see bandits slither from the shadows of the snowy underbrush. Her muscles tense, and she instinctively positions herself behind Tyveres. He protected her throughout their journey, even when she risked herself, so she designated her place in his shadows. The men didn't have a fine crimson robing of her king's guardsman; ruffled and dirty, covered blood bespeckled furs and hides of the wildlife for warmth. She wondered how long they were lingering in the cold for the sake of a possible piece of currency. She always had plenty of it and never understood the desperate need of men for gold until recently. "We were trying to make this easy and steal your stuff while you bled out in your sleep, but now we'll just have to kill you while you're awake!" Seemingly, to the point they'd kill for it without an ounce of remorse. The acid in her stomach intensifies. There was a whole other world out there, beyond the need for freedom and justice, one of mere greed and survival. Which one of these drove her father to such evil? "We have nothing for you. Return from where you came now, and you shall live to see another sun break." Cecilia shifted her eyes towards Tyveres. He, too, had taken the life of others. The princess deliberated how much the man valued life. Thus far, he only drew blood for her protection, a task many soldiers in her kingdom would do, but the ice that always gleamed in the back of his eyes...There had to be more blood staining his hands. The princess suddenly realized that she never asked him about his past before he was her bodyguard. "Correction: three of you and one of her." "Huh?" She snapped into focus for a second time. Tyveres stepped aside and expose her to the bandits. "She will take you on." "Huh??" She froze, blinking rapidly and raising her curved blade before her to the bandits. They proceeded to laugh at her; she gripped her sword tighter, glancing at Tyveres, who gave her a firm nod. She understood. This was meant to be another test for her, but did he expect her to slay these men? She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous shiver oscillating through her muscles. "Well, look at this one. Don't rough her up too much! I haven't fucked in a long time, and this one's got a pretty face!" She took a nervous step back, heart racing at the violating imagery behind his words. Why were desperate men so vulgar and terrifying? A deep, heaving breath escaped her chest, and she took a hesitant step back. Apparently, it triggered them. They rushed at her like three lions, and the princess instantly felt like a gazelle. She became aware of how far her feet had sunk into the snow, how small and delicate she was compared to the three of them, and how outnumbered she was. The fear was building in her blood like poison. How could she fight them? "Fighting in different environments is good training. Snow can be one of the toughest, but none so tougher than the back of that moving sea serpent you enchanted." The sound of metal hitting metal rang in her head, and then the twisting wind rushed across her ears. Her raven hair tickles her neck, and a lightness caresses up her thighs. Was she moving? She exhaled, the curtain of fear drawing from her sight. The princess found herself descending from a flip, her sword parrying the lunge of a dagger so vigorously that it knocked the weapon clear from the bandit's hand. It spun rapidly and planted itself in a tree. She landed in the snow, turning her head in time to catch an ax falling towards her left shoulder. She bowed down, his movement seemed so slow, and then slipped under the inside of his arm, rising close to his grim face. He was the one who wanted to violate her. Cecilia's image reflected within his shocked eyes as her leg rose up and folded around the back of his knees. For a brief moment, they seemed ready to perform a robust Spanish dance. Her hand rose up aggressive along his torso and then fiercely pushed square in the sternum. His legs folded against hers, and he tumbled back, landing messily in the snow. The erratic movements were like dancing. Tyveres' voice in her head reminded her of the dance they shared on the back of the creature. Tyveres was faster than them, more elegant, and less predictable. Her muscles moved before her mind did, desirous of rekindling that ensemble. How warmth and impassioned she felt, her new escape from the world ever since she lost her stage to cruel fate. Another came from behind; she heard his crunch in the snow. Cecilia stepped forward, her boot stepping on the fallen bandit's face as she lept away. The third guy's sword crescent swung down, nearly hitting his friend, who now had a bloody nose. "Ugh! Watch jit, joo idiot!" His voice was snotty from the damage. "Sorry, the bitch keeps moving around!" "Geb her, ma nose won't stop bleeding." The princess turned with a heaviness in her white breath and crimson flush to her cheeks as she looked at them. A confident and determined smile plastered on her face, sea raging with energy like a torrid wave. She held her sword high once more, welcoming the feverish pulse in her ears. The one with the sword came at her. Her mind enraptured the scene to place Tyveres before her instead, using his image to drive her newfound thrill as she rushed forward to engage the bandit. Soon they were sword playing in the snow, the man clearly more frustrated than the princess as he spluttered curses she forced herself to ignore. Her detached bliss lasted until the point where her sword elegantly slipped passed him and flew towards his gruff neck. Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught. His threatened vitality slapped her from the fantasy. The thought of murdering him paralyzed her, and her sword paused an inch from his beating artery. Hypnotized by the dread of slaying him, a peripheral assailant slid through the cracks and snatched her under the arms. Her feet lifted from the ground, and his hands entwined against the back of her head. "Got you!" At this time, Tyveres was likely imposed to intervene. Even as she struggled against his strength, the princess's mind was focused on her handicapping conflict. How would she ever be expected to hold a sword to anyone if she couldn't fathom the idea of killing even a bandit? There had to be another way. Any way. Something demented these men into evil practices. If only she could purify them, cleanse them. As Tyveres approached, he'd notice something going on with the woman's body. Her honeyed skin started to illuminate in a soft amber glow. Her gaze seemed distant, fireflies glissading over the cerulean rivers of her pupils. The one with the sword seemed bewildered. "What, what is--" "See yourself, step out of the darkness." Her melodic voice whispered; the soft tones perfumed with sweet lyrical tones. Suddenly the light lining her skin condensed into rivulets that slithered rapidly into her captor's eyes. "Argh!" The man released her, holding his face and stumbling backward. The princess dropped down and swung her sword, the flat end hitting the side of the swordsman's knee with a notable pop. He screamed in agony and fell over, holding his rapidly swelling knee. She pointed her sword at his neck, gazing that the axeman. "Enough!" She yelled. "Just stop! Is money really worth your lives?!" The axeman paused. The bandit looked at this wounded companion, then the other, who tripped into the snow with eyes still ablaze with a golden glow. "Just...leave." She frowned sadly. "I don't want to see you killed. But if you come closer..." She pressed the tip of her sword to the man, a crimson drop drawn. However, the axeman offered her a skeptical grin. "You're trembling like a child, wench. You don't hab da guts du kill a man." He took another step. The princess glanced at her arm. It was indeed shivering quite a bit, and not from the cold. "Perhaps not." She admitted. "But he will." The man looks at Tyveres. "He's only humoring you for the sake of letting me practice with a sword. Take a look at his eyes, and tell me you don't see your own death." The man makes eye contact, taking in that wintry glare rivaling the deathly cold of the night surrounding them—he tenses and reverses. "Let's leave," says the bandit previously blinded. His eyes are now clear, face riddled with a strong sense of clarity, and cheeks stricken with resolved tears. "I...don't want to do this anymore." The axeman looked absolutely appalled and shocked at his bandmate, soon followed by a wild confusion. He slowly lowered his ax as his teary companion walked placidly towards the princess. There was an unmistakable peace in his demeanor. The princess backed up from the wounded swordsman and watched as the approaching man lifted him from the ground and draped an arm over his shoulder. The swordsman, too, looked very confused. However, the reformed man kept his eyes on the princess, as if she were suddenly his saving grace. Then spontaneously, he turned and headed back towards the shadows. The axeman stared after him, then glanced back at the princess as if trying to decipher what about her enchanted this companion. In the end, he cursed, rubbed the blood from his nose, and then ran after the other two. "Ugh, wab da hell is wrong wib you, man?! He broke ma nose!" he said, disappearing into the darkness. The princess dropped to her knees, sighing in deep relief.
  10. Dyrim oscillated its bellowing command, and as if the very vibrations of the sound scorched her, the banshee retracted her hand. The beautiful voice is suddenly quieted, and the banshee jerks her hand to her throat as if suffocating the effects. She leaps back like a wounded gazelle. Natasha gradually opens her eyes. "No. I cannot. I'm sorry." "You cannot?" No voice leaves her mouth, but her lips form the words. "You're sorry?" She repeats, her delicate face cold with anguish. The pedals beneath her naked feet are kissed with icicles, a wintry breath in the air. "You will abandon me too?" I'm sorry, poppet…. I...I can't….. Luna's voice shimmies through the darkness, Sarra no longer seeming to notice Alexandria but be consumed by her own tormenting thoughts. The voice is distorted and horrid, her very fragmented mind attempting to speak through the metaphysical planes of existence. "Be still, Sister, be in silence." The second ring makes the banshee scream, her voice silent but her expression enough to exemplify it. "No!" Her mouth silently yells. "I don't want to feel the pain!" Sarra falls to her knees, hands clamped to her temple. Her eyes sockets literally shiver with disturbance, tension racing through her body. "She left me to die...she didn't care. I sacrificed myself for her. Don't let me feel it...Let me go cold." Her lips mutter in trembling, muted whispers. Alexandria draws Kibeth, and its sonorous voice calls for peace to this maelstrom of psychosis. Sarra's hands fall to her side, two tears too descending down her cheeks, and the obscure haze glassing her eyes vanishes. Sarra looks up at her Sister, bewildered. "Alexandria?" Sarra rubbed her head. "Where...what is…" It was working. The orchestra of magic was breaking away the winter that froze her Sister's mind into a spiral of paradoxical despair entwined with apathy. The corresponding fragmented soul within the Coven's collective awakens, reaching out to the body's shell now warm with emotion. Sarra's eyes widen, clarity cascades upon her. "What happened?" Her voice returns. She is no longer undead. "Sister?" she speaks, relief casting on her face as she stands. "Sister, you're here. I've been so lost, I-" "What's this?" A familiar horrible voice crawls through the air around them. The sound of something large and looming in the distant trees transpires, branches breaking and trunks bending against weight. Dead leaves rain down in the wind upon the brilliant flowers, as it remains shaded by the curtain of darkness. A freezing gust suddenly falls upon them, and the atmosphere trembles into a terrible feeling. It is hard to describe, but its molesting tingle pricks like the anxiety before panic. It makes one want to claw their skin because it is full of worms or scream because the tension of fear is mutilating their insides. Familiar crimson eyes open within the darkness above Sarra, with a breath so voluminous that it lifted her ravenous hair. Alexandria drops the final ring, but before its effects can be observed, an ichor talon slams down upon Sarra, completely engulfing her in grotesque tarry substance. "A hint of soul I sense. Where or where is this from?" Then Alexandria would feel it, deep within herself and through realms of the arcane where the tendrils of her sisterhood birthed the great storm of energy surrounding their soul fragments. Something reached for it, something dark and iniquitous traveling through the ties of Sarra's faded orbit. As it approached, though, the protective energy becomes angry, its brilliance abruptly so luminescent, it lights the presence in white flames. The hidden beast suddenly screeches in pain on the outside; a burnt and smoldering scent permeates the area. "Ah...you harness a collective source of power. Are you the key it to, little witch? Is it that...retched sound you make?" A figure entered the flower's light through the darkness. An orc, standing 7ft and compact with dense muscle that binged between snakes of ichor lurking all over his body. Dingly, greasy black hair draped down to his naked pectorals. Armor was draped over his waist, legs, arms, and shoulders. He was further adorned with onyx jewels, decorating his ears and hanging on his obsidian chest. In his clawed right hand, a long serrated sword was held, tip dragging through the flowers. His carmine eyes were honed in on Alexandria. It was Bale. "Get the bells." Bale rushed forward, a savage orcish cry coming from his tusked orifice. Seconds after his charge, his figure was obscured from Alexandria's view, another body stepping forth and meeting it with a crashing sound of metal. Natasha was recovered, her feet compressed into the earth with her own raging snarls meeting Bale's as she met his attack with her gauntlets. With impassionated vigor, she pushes Bale from her. The two stare at each other, a deadly calm between them. Bale's eyes glance over Natasha's shoulder to Alexandria; he takes a step to the side. Natasha tightens her eyes, meeting his action and shielding the witch once more. "What is wrong with you, Bale?" Bale looks back at Nastaha, the tiniest of grins form. "I'm free." "Looks like you just changed masters." "This one lets me kill freely. Try the ichor, Natasha. You'll see." "Fuck you." The orcs charge each other. Then like two lions brawling for territory, the orcs engaged in a horrid, violent battle. Blood quickly hit the air, the strength of the warriors overwhelming the tenacity of their own hides. They moved so vehemently in and out of the darkness that it was hard to tell whose blood was whose. Bale, whose skill was not dulled by his possession, met Natasha's strike at every turn. Natasha's assaults had a purpose; she guided her vicious opponent as far as she could away from Alexandria and paid the price with slashes on her body. "Kamal, protect Alexandria!" She yells. Beyond them, Sarra remerged from the ichor. Her form distorted and bleached into a gauntly ghostly body. The loaming creature poisoned her once more, disconnecting her body from the fragmented piece in the Coven's Soul. Apathetic insanity rekindled, the banshee thrashes her head back and forth, screaming breathless murder before flying across the distance to slash Alexandria with her dagger-like fingernails. "Keekeekee." The crimson eyes enjoys it all maniacally as it slinks away, the trees relieved of a heavyweight as the unknown creature retreats. "Surely Luna will break with enough blood spilled…Then I'll take her and this collective soul..."
  11. Ferrah, you have to learn to communicate to succeed in this mission. The she-orc wondered if this was one of Luna's unwelcomed lessons. The witch was over 500 years old, and for some reason, she felt the need to imposed her old and wrinkled knowledge on those in her immediate proximity. Nonetheless, the she-orc glanced around her and frowned at the clear social distancing bubble around her persona, as if they were the middle of some pandemic, and she was the virus. She released a loud and frustrated sigh, scratching at her silvery and raven locks. "Alright, Ferrah," she said to herself. "You have to get along. Calm down….settle your anger." It was like throwing a sprinkle on a raging flame. She didn't even understand it herself. It was like slow ascending rising heat molesting every inch of her muscles, making them singe and simmer like the teenie bubbles erecting at the bottom of a pot on flames--just sprinkling salt of vexation, and she exploded into an angry, screaming boil. "Calm...Calm...Calm…" "You seem to--" "GAH!" The orc whipped around and snarled like a startled wild beast. She was so focused on trying to cool her hot head that when Vivan approached and with a question, no verbal and physical greeting whatsoever, the orc nearly struck her like a viper with the sudden closeness. She then blinked and tilted her gaze down. The woman likely paused at her belligerent exclaim with some manner of alarm. Ferrah's hand released the handle of her blade as she took in Vivan's figure. A fragile human looking thing with a book. Her skin was smooth like honey, and embraced impeccably on a silhouette as curvaceous as a dance of ribbons; nothing like the bulge of Ferrah's muscles wrapping tightly on her ashy hide. The orc imagined she could crush the elf-like her an aluminum-can between her fists. In other words, not-threatening. She calmed, allowing silence to guide the rest of this stranger's words. "...have tamed one so I can stand to guess you are after a dragon maybe the cause of the tremors here? Would you like to join us?" The orc canted her head and quirked a brow. Her limited understanding struggled to grasp selected known words with fill in the gaps with guesses. "Seems our goals are aligned, and dragons aren't exactly peaceful creatures nor easy to slay should that need to happen. An extra hand is always helpful." "You...know the dragon?" She responded. What a damn stroke of coincidental luck! She moved not two feet on this street, and her answer was strolling up to her. Fantastic. The orc grinned for a moment, but her expression was replaced by a certain sense of bewilderment when the elf extended her delicate hand. The orc blinked, observed the friendly smile on Vivian's face, and then nodded firmly and quickly whipped out her own. She grasped not the hand but the wrist. Her vice grip was like a constrictor, applying immediate and painful pressure on the layering bones. The moment Vivian expressed pain, though, she relented. She nodded again firmly. The brief expression would, at most, leave a nasty bruise the next morning. "Yes, am strong. Will fight dragon well." She crossed her arms proudly. Unbeknownst to Vivian, Ferrah was not trying to purposely hurt her. Her gesture was a test of strength in Ferrah's culture; orcs would grip each other's wrists and squeeze as tight as possible until the one expressed pain. This often led to broken wrists before one yielded. Ferrah merely thought Vivan was testing to see if she was worthy of their group. "My dragon weak, worthless lizard," she continues without missing a beat. "But come back after sleep. I call if need." She gestures with her thumb to a whistle carved of polished onyx hanging on her neck. Her crimson eyes shift from the elf to those drifting around behind her. More people. Good. Dragon bait. "Where dragon?" She asked, turning her gaze back at Vivan.
  12. @L E V I A T H A N TerFractimosans, omg 😂 my morning laugh right there
  13. "Natasha, if we can save the orcs…we do so. If not…then we put them down like the banshees." Natasha gradually raised a brow but nodded in compliance nonetheless. On a typical day, she'd be happy to drive a blade into Curt, just for the sake of saying she successfully did it. He was a chronic vexation but a fine warrior despite his short stature and gremlin attitude. Bale, however, was more of an esoteric beast. He often kept to himself, and the fellow orcs left him alone because of it. An orc would try and test those waters with a quip of their tongue every now and then. Enough quips, and Natasha had seen an orc's tongue ripped out by the lightning flash of his hand. The she-orc remembered watching the orc squirm and thrash while choking on the fountain of blood in his own throat while Bale simply tossed the wiggling tongue and walked away. Natasha had a general lack of fear of anything concerning death, but she wouldn't push Bale's buttons unless she genuinely wanted a real fight. Out of the two, Bale was definitely the one she was most cautious of. And so they entered into the dark wood through the onyx metaphor curtain loaming behind the distant trees. Natasha, listening well the Luna's statement about the orcs' vision, took a position in front of Alexandria. They entered the voided grove of trees and suddenly felt cascaded with a sense of burden. In the dark, her crimson vision reverted things to colorless shades of ashen colors, like the footage behind a night-lens, but now she felt as if gazing through a widow's veil. Colors were present but weak and obscure. She could only see a good ten feet ahead, enough to distinguish trees and understory, but a low vantage for spotting an ambush. For Alexandria, it was sheer unpleasant darkness. There was no luminescent flora to guide them through a dismal pathway. Natasha reached back and grabbed Alexandria's hand, sacrificing the use of one of her hands to guide the witch through the darkness. "Stay close." She said, and continues forward. "Not many roots in the ground, but easy for us to get lost if separated." She spoke the truth. The black was so incredulously dense, like the heart of a ravenous black hole, drifting too far apart would surely see them ultimately succumbed. For a while, all they experienced was the crackle in Alexandria's aphotic torch, the rustle of their feet in the earth, the warmth of each other's hands. Where were these flowers? As she thought it, they appeared. Like a river of color blossoming from underneath Alexandria's treading feet, a stream of luminous and beautiful rosettes paved a pathway before them. The incandescent path led into the distance until out of sight. The multiple shades shined on the low roots, cerulean, mahogany, and lilac colors painting the wood and tentatively enchanting the Dark Forest. It must have just been twelve hours since Luna's work here, signaling her struggle for her Sisters' lives. Her magic adorned the world around them, the temperature warmed, and air lightened as if her hands were reaching to pull them from danger. Natasha released Alexandria's hand, taking in the vignette for a few seconds before she walks on. They traveled for almost an hour, a thankful uneventful hour in the darkness, before a different rustle, too heavy for a mere critter, makes the she-orc pause. "Wait," she said, holding a hand up over her shoulder. A voice whispered within the darkness--at first so indistinct that it could have been the lovely undertones of the zephyr. Then like the gradual rise of the sea, a deep melody arose in a smooth velvety crest and crashed upon them in a sonorous cadence so sullen and sweet that seemed to be flowing from the viola strings of the heart. It was a haunting and exquisite voice; that of the crying soul, lost love, and angels falling in a flurry of bloody pedals from the sky. Yet it was so alluring that it could not only cause sailors but gods to drown in the depths of its chorus. As the serenade composes, the appearance of a sylph dancing in and out of the luminance transpires before them. The woman's naked feet were so pure that they reflected the stage lights on her slender legs. With her body's rhythm, she shifted like the gentle flow of the aurora borealis. The flora glow seemed entranced by her ghostly motions, following after her in fading yearns for her return when she vanished. Something suddenly seems off about the orc. "Mmnh." Natasha stumbled a bit to the side, accosted by a wave of dizziness that she immediately tried to slap away a palm at her temple. Her eyes dilated and wandered freely in her sockets. The she-orc feels like she drunk a hundred chalices of ale. No, worse, a hundred chalices of ale wouldn't phase her. This intoxication took intense control of her body. She was so vigorous and loaded with tenacity but so exposed to the mysterious concepts of magic. A low growl rumbles between her tusks, eyes determinedly focusing on the woman reappearing in the distance. In the most non-tactic thing she has ever done, Natasha suddenly runs, poorly, to the figure. Before she can even get there, her consciously fades, and she descends, landing face-first into the flowers. Luminescent pedal flew into the air and into her mouth. She lays there, motionless. Unlike the oscillating screeches of Stellastria, this drunken lullaby would also be heard by Kamal. Perhaps Alexandria runs towards her to try and reach her companion. Before she can close the gap, the woman appears directly before her. Her mostly naked body was covered by thin ribbons of onyx colors, and her oceanic eyes as deep and cold as the glacier oceans. It is Sarra. Her smooth hand extends out towards her Sister witch. "Dance with me." Though she speaks, her orchestra still travels around them. As it flows so freely, the crimson witch would feel the sensation begin to overcome her again—the desire to release her emotions, even sing them away into the darkness. Underneath, there is a subtle pleasure urging to become so real and wisps her away into cold bliss. Sarra extends her hand closer, a gentle smile there. "Dance with me, and I will lead you to where you need to be."
  14. Natasha lowers her lashes as Alexandria seals the final distance between them, stoic and still for a moment with flickering thoughts igniting flames between her irises. Then she abruptly sifted her lips and coalesced with hers like entwining threads to a tapestry of passion. She held the witch's head tight, mindful of her gauntlet's blades already catching a few strands of her crimson hair. The Tyrtrol Tribe didn't kiss; Natasha was truly the only one exposed to such a custom. She tasted the trickle of blood from her bitten lip and gently lapped it with a tongue that was feverishly hot along with her smoldering breath. However, at this moment, the she-orc did not let the desire to seize control, as logic told her knew Alexandria was merely falling into the explosive atmosphere of the moment. Orcs could make mountains shiver in such moments. Alexandria pulled back, and the she-orc gently let her go, still reflecting her smirk. So they continued onwards through the forward, leaving the tragic scene behind. Their next step was to find another rune from Luna. If they were not attacked first. It would help them determine how long the witch continued unharmed and capable of leaving them. Natasha continued to follow behind Alexandria, who led them north. They were approaching deeper into the cavity of the woods. Natasha occasionally checked the canopy with the goals of avoiding areas that seemed too dense. Her crimson vision, attuned to the night time and darkness through biological rather than magical means, was also an indicating. When the trees suddenly disappeared into shadows, the orc encouraged them to avoid on that trek up north. Whether it was by this or pure fortune, the duo did not tread into rumored areas utterly devoid of light. Natasha listened to the melodic song quietly. It appeared sentimental, and if it were anyone other than Alexandria, the orc would command silence. As lovely as one may have perceived the witch's voice, Natasha's ears had a dull and achy ring from the banshee's attack. Unfortunately, some of her hearing was lost as well. She didn't speak on it, thinking it would do them no right, but the she-orc needed to listen to the trees without the distraction of Alexandria's voice. As they come to a pause, Alexandria guided by an inner pull, a lilac glow suddenly illuminates on the knob of a tree. Natasha jerks her head and steps in front of Alexandria with a tense stance. However, the incandescence is from a rune activated by the blood magic Alexandria established. Luna's ghostly form transpires, sitting on a branch of the tree. Her image appears tired, hair in many disheveled strands, and dress begrimed with tears. The image softly sighs and lifts a hand to gesture to the direction she wants Alexandria to look. Suddenly directly to her left, another image of Luna rushes past her, running forth towards the distant trees with desperation. The trees beyond held no proceeding light as if a black curtain descended beyond their trunks. Behind her, a beautiful long-haired sylph pursues. Through panic and expedience riddles this woman's body as well, her chase is graceful and cadent, like an antelope leaping from a predator. She barely reaches Alexandria's breasts in height, and her body is sculpted with smooth, acrobatically lean muscles. Her sinewy strength blinked into appearance with her curvaceous body's trained flex; it all revealed so boldly under the thin ribbons of fabric that embraced her body. It is SarraCenia, the lovely dancing witch who performed magical feats through arcane rippling waves from her dancing vessel. She was free-spirited, flirtatious, and jubilant like a nymph lost in a faun's rhythm. Now though, her face was wrinkled with worry, and dried tears streaked her cheeks. The memory of Sarra caught Luna with ease, grasping her tight around the waist and holding her still as the high-witch desperately struggled to push forward. "She's gone, Luna! Please stop!" Sarra cries through her grip. "No!" Luna yells as she pushes against her. "I can save her! I can save them all! Emma! Emma!!" "Her soul is GONE, Luna! Gone! I know you can feel it too!" "NO!" Luna struggles in a panicked state never seen before in her. Her pupils are dilated, sclera coral from tears, and body raging like a wild, insane animal to tear herself from Sarra. "Luna, I'M still here!" The dancer forces Luna to turn around, the gaze making the high-witch temporarily freeze. "I'm still here...Please, Sister, it is too strong... We need help. Come with me." Sarra places a hand to Luna's face, cupping it gently with pleading waves in her sapphire irises. Luna breathes deep and rapid, mauve eyes shivering with a mixture of despair and guilt. She then raises a gloved hand, places it on Sarra's shoulder. And blasts her back with a force of magic. Sarra falls to the sound, completely stunned by the assault. She stared at up Luna, who slowly retreats back from her. "I'm sorry, poppet. I…" Luna whispers, looking at her own hand as if in disgust. But then she closed her eyes with resolution and determination. "You go back. I..I can't leave them." And then she turns and vanishes into the darkness beyond the trees. "LUNA!" Sarra yells before both the images vanish. "That was the last I saw her alive…" Says the projection in the tree. "My mind was clouded, Alexandria. I could not think to save the Sister I had left, too blinded by my failures to save the others. This is why I had to come back alone...I couldn't risk it." The memory stares down at Alexandria. "Beyond that grove, there will be no light. The Dark Forest's magic stiffens all manner of light; the arcane and flame will both prove fruitless. The orcs minimally see. Curt's scouting and vision will hopefully guide me well." Natasha's mouth tightened at Curt's name. So it was Bale that was first taken. She wasn't surprised; the little whelp was quite the evasive one. "But I will not leave you to depend on the same limitation. I gathered the seed of a rare flower that penetrates the night with a light. It is called Nightburst. Upon study, I managed to write a spell to germinate a trail of it through the dark. It will take 12 hours to bloom, but I imagine a lot of time has now passed. I am uncertain if I will succeed. I feel...weak and faded, Sister. The creature's mind games weigh upon me. Find the trail, Sister, and it will guide you closer to the nest." The image began to fade. "Blessed Be." And it was gone.
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