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: 156.34.225.164
Posted on September 29, 2012 at 12:53:52 PM by fallacy
he who lives on hope will die fasting A disturbance on the border had failed to mobilize the pallid-coated Novacula. It was not her duty to join with the throng of over-enthusiastic soldiers as they bumbled about, their violence and blood lust fuelling them to protect the land to which they were indebted. The faerie was no soldier. Hunting on a team was not something that she engaged in unless ordered. It was not for her sake, but on the behalf of whatever comrade who might be fighting with her. Most wolves shied away from the prospect of engaging in the blood sport with the frozen-hearted belladonna, who acted without body language and could kill, maim and lie without the barest hint of regret or expression. It was not only teamwork that made a soldier a soldier – it was zeal. The amount of passion with which they defended their land was utterly lost on the dead-eyed fey. Any patriotic emotions that she had ever hosted within her killer's body had shrivelled away unrecognized, unable to attain realization. She was as a thing dead, a thing that has surpassed most petty restrictions of life. Sentimentality did not stay her blows, fear never froze her body and she would not stop until exhaustion or injury physically incapacitated her body. No matter the case, she would obey Kershov, the king to which she had assigned herself as a pawn. She would move only on his direction, and when she did move, her motions would be with suffused with her trademark, chilling accuracy. The iron-hearted lady would not falter – she simply did not know how to do so. Fallacy was the perfect weapon, a deadly marionette of destruction. The one fiddling with the strings was one who held the ability to kill with a flick of his fingers. She felt nothing other than her duty to her master – it was that duty which kept her lungs moving, her blood pumping and her limbs supple. As tough as the pastel bird was, in a way her psyche was fragile in its dependence on the wolf to whom she had decided to serve. But no matter, even in its pathetic, pitiful state of tender depravity, Fallacy's mind was not weak, and nor would it ever be. The mud-eyed vixen had never been one to endorse anything to do with weakness , after all, she was still alive, and in the blood-splattered dimension in which she existed, those who nursed vulnerabilities, be they secret or obvious, would die. There was no middle ground, nor would there ever be. She could not hope for a new existence, she could not even contemplate the idea of a new future, even the art of hoping had been pulled from her grasp before she had even realized its crushing value. One with no feelings has forfeited their sacred right to freedom, and with that gone, there is nothing to do but become an emotionless tool. It was without any bitter nostalgia or flinching trauma that Fallacy surveyed her past. What had happened had happed – it would be foolish to try and flee from the truth. She had killed, others had died, she had become perfect, others, defected, had been thrown away. It was a simple thing, this game of life and death, and she had little say in it. It was not her duty to answer the call of any wolf other than her lord, but when the howl of Marx rang out specifically for her pale auditive organs, the lithe shinigami turned her muscled chassis in his direction. She normally would have ignored his bugle, but the cloying scent of Kershov, heavy with his dark thundercloud of wrath, was on the horizon. She would assume her place in the clearing when the time came, as her leader might have need of her own special... skills, should he want to swiftly deal with the intruder. Fallacy was not so presumptuous to automatically decide that she would likely be needed, but nevertheless, she tended to stay close to the arctic emperor – after all, better a dagger hidden in your sleeve than six sitting on your desktop in a time of trouble. With grace, the petite sparrow ghosted through the gnarled, grey trees, becoming a phantom among phantoms, a wraith among demons. She seemed a mere apparition, noiseless and quick as her pistons propelled her seamlessly amidst the trunks. For a few minutes, she travelled, until at last arriving in the clearing in which the soldiers were having a negative powwow of sorts. It seemed as if she appeared suddenly, one moment nonexistent, and the next present. Her light-colored fur was immaculate as always, her eyes as stainless as always, and her stance completely neutral. Her sharp glance had travelled from each member of the group to the next, scrutinizing everything, judging all, and missing nothing. The only notable creatures in the group were her liege and the wolf he had brought with him, a pitiful shadow of a arctic wolf. She paid him no special mind, and had not a care for his state as she stepped, with finality, into the place, silently touching her rump to the ground in a sit. Her frozen expression was neither expectant not unprepared as she observed her lord. No anticipation stirred in her breast – a knife did not wait with excitement for usage, nor did a marionette dance with glee. Fallacy was stoic and calm, unruffled by the situation. She would do as order, and, should she not be instructed to act, she would not act. It was as simple as that. 
Table made by SMJ |
Replies:
- I am the sword in the darkness - By Marx October 5, 2012 at 04:18:59 AM
FROZEN MASS GRAVE - By KERSHOV October 16, 2012 at 08:56:09 PM
The Killer of Autumn - By AutumnLeaf October 22, 2012 at 00:29:47 AM
- By ff October 7, 2012 at 10:27:52 PM
- - By - September 30, 2012 at 08:45:30 PM