The Lost Islands
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Your King
Asmodeus
Your Queen
Nyimara
The Second
None
The Herd
Name, Name, Name
The Sub-Herd
Name, Name, Name
Allies
Name (Land)
Enemies
Solomon (Cove)
The Rules
  • There will be no fraternizing with enemies. If you put yourself knowingly in danger, don't expect a rescue.
  • We are only as strong as our weakest link. See to it that you are getting stronger in some skill that is useful, whether it is battling, recruiting, charming, etc.
  • The King and Queen have final say in all matters.
THE GODS CONTEND IN VAIN


EL ARAN
El Aran held herself together until she returned to the Desert. She pulled herself out of the ocean on trembling legs and collapsed just above the kiss of the tide, lying limply on the shore much like her son had all those months ago when he had finally returned to her. For a time she let herself shiver, her body afire with nerves and that familiar anxiety that strengthened her in battle but weakened her during times of peace— times that were so lengthy, so familiar here on the Islands that El Aran was beginning to wonder if her affliction was perhaps not caused by her experiences in the war and was instead a test of her Goddess. Aşk, loving though she might be, was not a soft deity prone to coddling Her subjects.

It made sense.

With a brief, panted prayer to her eight-eyed Goddess, the black mare raised herself to her feet. Her limbs still trembled faintly but she did not succumb to the emotional weakness that threatened to send her sprawling back onto the wet sands. The seer glanced at the cloudless sky and noted the position of the sun, then stepped forward slowly. She picked up speed, her emotional weariness falling away with each consecutive step until her entire focus was on the long-standing strength of her body. Movement seemed to be the only cure for keeping the anxiety at bay, and El Aran refused to think of anything at all before she reached the safety of the oasis and her son’s capable eyes. If she thought about it— No. She would collapse and die in the heat, alone and raving, if she considered it out here in the desolate, bleak land she now called home.

As the black mare descended the slope of a dune she saw two figures in the distance and automatically adjusted her course to approach them, assuming the darker horse was Vesti and that the lighter one, with the tell-tale silver in his mane, could be none other than her son. El Aran’s steps slowed as she drew nearer, however, for the horse her son faced was taller than their herdmate and carried a deeper color— as well as the whipcord body and unique sheen of an Akhal-Teke.

Whatever words the two stallions had exchanged before her arrival meant nothing to El Aran, and she did not pause to gauge the state of their conversation. All she knew was that Orhan was standing still, not attempting to drive the Purebred away with hoof and tooth, and the panic that had initially spiked through her was washed away by a flood of fury. The black mare moved to interpose herself between the bay Purebred and her pale son, a residual urge driven by both her maternal instincts and her own reckless habit of shielding others with her full body during the war, and stared up at the Akhal-Teke with flat ears and hate in her eyes as her teeth reached for the soft flesh of his nose. “Siktir git!” she hissed, and snapped her teeth at his face a second time to drive him back.

SEER OF THE DESERT
html made with love by shiva for uforia 2014


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