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 July 11, 2012 at 03:50:37 AM by KERSHOV
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Kershov took great pride in his self-control. If his inner infrastructures of diamond ice were something physical, something to be seen and pointed to and worshiped, he would have constructed monuments around them and led his soldiers marching gloriously through. Look at it . . . it’s perfect! And it was. It had taken countless cruel years for the moon-colored monster to build up this invisible snow-prison—his prison. It kept him sane. It caged his ruthless mindless beast in a place where it couldn’t break anything or interfere with the alabaster Alpha’s crystalline thoughts. Impulsiveness, madness, raging blood lust: all closed tightly and efficiently away. Forever. No one had made so much as a pathetic dent in those frigid bars for a long, long time. But that bastard stranger Wolverine had come pretty damn close. Ker found a snarl etched into his face as though he’d been born with it, an hour after he’d dealt with the brown-eyed brute. How was the gangleader still this pissed off? The fact that he had failed to calm down after what seemed like an eternity frustrated Kershov more. A vicious circle. Anger leading to anger leading to—you guessed it, more goddamn anger. A war would feel so great right about now. The Ice King wanted to rip someone’s hide off and chew on their spine like a toy. He wanted his claws to slip in blood-drenched mud. Yes. Holy shit, that sounded devine. A nice bloody mud-bath, a gore spa, a pretty layer of guts to bring back that healthy and glowing complexion . . . Violence had a perverse way of cheering the glacial Regal up, although Kershov’s version of cheerfulness was actually more akin to sick satisfaction. No matter. By the time the huge hessian had captured the scent of yet another newcomer on the thick Abendrot air, his mood had improved greatly. Arsinoe’s additional perfume only added to the King’s pleasure. This day might not turn out to be so horrendous, after all. The winter warlord flowed through the forest until his cunning black eyes caught sight of a battle-scarred brute and the strawberry-stained wolfess Arsinoe. Odd . . . Ker could taste a distinct cloud of doom hanging over both wolves—especially Arsinoe. The stranger appeared slightly more composed, more bored than anything else; he wore a serious and vaguely surly expression that made the ice-pale fur on Kershov’s shoulders start to life. So help the gods, if the Leader had to deal with one more recalcitrant little fool . . . Kershov sauntered up next to his scarlet warrioress to assess this male that thought he had a place running with Abendrot wolves. Something was wrong. Again, Ker glanced at Arsinoe, noting the way her head drooped, how her luminous eyes wandered the ground. The frostbitten phantom had never witnessed this side of his spy before. “Take the night off, Arsinoe. You’ve done enough patrolling for the day.” This was an order given discretely, quietly, with enough force for Arsinoe to either seriously consider obeying or prove to her Monarch that she still held onto a shred of energy. Kershov mostly commanded the girl to scram so that she wouldn’t present the strange brute with an image of Abendrot weakness. But there might have been genuine concern for his property there, as well. Soldiers did not perform so well when dark thoughts weighed on their souls. Then, turning his attention back to the loafer by his fence: “State your name and purpose, outsider. If you didn’t already know that my name is Kershov, and that I rule these lands, you should probably just turn yourself over as a prisoner immediately and save us all a grand headache.” | |
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