The forest stands tall and lush here; ancient trees reach weather-twisted arms to the sky, fighting monster-like storm clouds back with their interlacing fingers. Shadow seems to lurk everywhere you look, but it spills calmly, coolly, inspiring a sense of stealthy calm or protection rather than unease. That is, if you've forgotten what kind of creature might be stalking just out of sight...Abendrot is a land cradled by the dark woods on all sides; in the center, some of the larger trees stay behind to reveal a small plateau - a citadel where this pack can gather and defend itself from invaders. There are, of course, softer sides to the land. Clearings here and there allow the sun to throw down its rays in incongruously resplendent gold showers. Ignore the lingering scents of blood spattered here and there along the borders: those do not concern you. The river on one edge of the territory is playful enough when it hasn't been gorged by violent rain. You can choose to note the ragged claw marks raked down tree trunks and the forest floor as friendly "Home Sweet Home" signs, if you wish.
All who treasure loyalty, order, victory, and the occasional indulgence of raw visceral pleasure are welcome, once they've been approved by the ever-watchful eyes of Abendrot's Alpha. But keep one thing in mind: no matter what your motive, this is not a fool's Paradise. This is the land of soldiers, assassins, and spies. This is ABENDROT.
Make up your mind quickly and prepare to prove your worth. You wouldn't want to add to those blood spatters, would you...?
IP: 76.243.46.249
Posted on June 3, 2012 at 02:07:49 PM by KERSHOV
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Another day, another nightmare. How pathetic. Kershov really did need to pull himself together—his behavior of late had become quite ridiculous. He didn’t usually succumb to this “sleep” business; it wasted precious time, and only made the arctic dragon miserable. When others drifted away to their gentle dreamlands, their minds rocked and coddled like infants on a breeze of healing rest, Kershov drowned. He sank and gasped under waves of horrors he could not control or defeat. Tides of enemies flooded him with the memory of countless failures. Loss filled his lungs. Riptides conquered him every time Ker struggled against the dark onslaught of past regrets and downfalls, and back he would hurtle into that ocean of nightmares, blood gurgling in this throat and stinging his eyes like salt, acid enemy voices rushing in his ears like the crash of a hundred tsunamis. Somewhere—a frozen star hanging a billion miles away—Kershov’s lingering consciousness knew that he’d eventually shred his way back to wakefulness and feel royally pissed off about falling asleep in the first place. As soon as he opened his black-glass windows, the futile fear that ruled him in his nightmares would creep away and slip its inky tentacles apologetically across his brain. It would slither into the farthest corner of Ker’s mind, sorry that it had ever disturbed him. Fear was a rather cowardly thing. It only ever dared raise its ugly head when the winter warrior slumbered—and that hardly ever happened. Until the moment Kershov somehow shuddered awake, however, visions of horror assaulted him again . . . and again . . . and again . . . Many wolves clawed away from their nightmares in an embarrassing display of flailing limbs and frightened cries—Kershov merely shook himself, as though feeling the waters of sleep drip down his fur, and opened his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust his lightless lanterns to the sunshine splashing over the trees. Finally. This particular dream had taken stupidly longer than the last to escape from. Ker wasn’t certain what he felt more humiliated about: falling asleep at all in the first place, or falling asleep again within the same week as his last nightmare. Watching Kershov try to stand after sleeping so hard might have actually been adorable if witnessed from a hundred feet away. It was like observing a clumsy polar bear: sure, it was huge and deadly, but its massive size made the feat that much more comical. All rumpled and disoriented, Kershov must have appeared pretty darn cute . . . until he turned the savaged half of his cranium into the light, throwing trenches and lightning bolts of scar tissue and serrated teeth into sharp relief. His eyes hardened into polished onyx slants, all softness of slumber crystallized and evaporated. Just let somebody try and call him “adorable.” They’d be taking a nice little nap of their own—under six feet of dirt. To soothe the desert dryness in his throat, Ker calmly stalked down toward one of the many streams that sliced its path through Abendrot’s forest. Fragrant summer winds combed through his bone-colored fur and slicked down most of the messy spikes and tufts that had risen during the more feverish parts of his nightmare. After splashing some icy water across his visage, Kershov seemed to have erased his haggard appearance. Now he was back to being the glacial gladiator, the austere Alpha that ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove. No more of this “sleeping” nonsense. No more of this weakness. He began to growl to himself, a low thunder that shook his chest— Only to be interrupted by a howl. Kershov flinched slightly, twin towers perking atop his crown to better hear the longing voice that called him alone. Odd . . . this was no joining howl, asking for all the pack to listen, but a song written specifically for the frigid Czar. His name stroked the treetops and soared under monstrous cumulous clouds. Some female clearly wanted his attention. Although Kershov thought the lyrics sounded familiar, he couldn’t possibly place who exactly wanted to talk to him so badly. Like any good Regal, the frostbitten phantom turned tail and charged toward his border. Imagine his surprise, after assuming that he’d meet this mystery femme by himself, when several Abendrot scents assaulted his senses. Normally Ker would simply assume that his loyal soldiers were patrolling—if not for the tangible aura of aggression veiling the woods. Thinking he’d been set up in a trap, Kershov poured on more speed, a snarl etched in his mask, punishment ruling his thoughts— “Minaj?” Her name slipped hoarsely from his maw without him meaning to utter a word. Massive white paws skidded to a stop, bringing the alabaster gangster to a halt in front of a handful of his female fighters and her. The last time he’d seen this wolfess, rainbows had danced upon her bittersweet canvas and the music of running water over stone had played harmony with her voice. It was Minaj. What the hell was she doing here? Kershov swallowed hard, summoning all the ice in his soul to freeze his face and prevent any surprise from showing through. Seeing her powerful, sleek frame, the bleached beast suddenly had a grand idea for how to banish any stress that might be leading to his recent nightmares . . . He seemed not to see his own girls forming a protective line across the border. Kershov even neglected the lovely Arsinoe, a wolfess he’d come to greatly admire and trust. His souless midnight stare drank in only Minaj. “Leave us,” Kershov instructed his pack. The hardness of his voice suggested that he’d hear none of their arguments. Without looking back, the snowy soldier stepped over the Abendrot fence and slunk past the chocolate-hued beauty. “We’re going somewhere more . . . private.” [OOC: sorry for longness...I rambled :P] | |
Replies:
- I am the rain. incomplete - By Alice July 7, 2012 at 10:08:43 AM