About the game
The eternal battle between the forces of light and dark continues to rage on.
The Light King went on a journey of spiritual discovery, his reasons unknown. In doing so he left his lands vulnerable to the attacks of the Darkness. The Lands of Light, have now been conquered by the dark. With any Light horses being forced out, or living as slaves to the Dark legions.
The Saligia; the gods that protect the world have made themselves known. Speaking through the vessel they allow mortals to speak with them to hear their judgement.
But with the return of the Light King heralds new hope for the forces of light. Will they suceed? Or will they fall?
Joined: Dec 2007 Gender: Female Posts: 21 Location: On your oatmeal box :] Karma: 2
Once More on Silver Lips so Spiteful « Thread Started on Sept 15, 2009, 7:36pm »
beautiful whispers leave one so far chain these hands of ageless struggle rid us of this beloved curse
Screams. Screeches. Silence. All in that order. All you could hear for what seemed like an eternity of darkness. Of brutality. Of suffering. When one disappears for such a long time, a land is turned to waste. Kingdoms destroyed. Overtaken. The rein of corruption had begun. What had caused such a sudden spike in tragedy? One could never fathom it's results. What terror had caused so many of us to vanish? To fall? To... die? Had we all simply given up? Surrendered to the bastard we name Stirga? Shall we all bow to his greatness? No. I think not.
Salvador.
The name was now seeming as a joke. The name was dragged down and stomped in the dirt, the dust, the waste, the grime. The most insulting of all. Saviour? I think not. And those of us remaining are expected to bow to the cursing that is SALVADOR? The thought makes me tremble with laughter. Our great leader is worthless. Hopeless. He no longer has the support of his recent followers. Why? Oh why? For he has abandoned us! Left us to fend for ourselves. We have no Saviour. Purity? All is gone. Our mares raped, our stallions murdered. What do we have now but disgrace? Slaves. All we are now are slaves to the all- mighty king of darkness.
What a foul beast, striking when we are already kicked down. What purpose did it serve? The power hungry maniac had all he could ask for- give him nothing more God! That is... if you are there. Why would you forsake us in such a time of desperation? Those of us have been forced to grow up, and to get a grip. Colts are now maturing to be ravenous, murderous, and suicidal creatures that could never be mistaken for equines. Not the equines I grew up around, that is. Deception! Our mares are now nothing but brood for the corrupt. To help built their army. The more delicate breeds? The one's with bloodlines so pure and refined? The breeds that are lighter, with lighter bone structures? Made into slaves or broods for sacrifices. Many mares have carried young for the tainted that have grown to kill their mothers.
How would you feel to have you death growing inside you? Or the product of a savage rape? Or maybe to know that the creature inside you could kill your old herd mates, or your uncaptured best friend. And once that foal is out of your womb and on the ground, to be viciously penetrated once more? Our mares are weak. And we can do nothing about it, for we have no leader.
I stood in the forest, head down. Thinking. Waiting. Waiting for what? The signal of go.
And I was ready.
an epic tale of deceit is given life once more on silver lips so spiteful her tongue screams for him rid us of this curse
Joined: Dec 2007 Gender: Female Posts: 15 Karma: 0
Re: Once More on Silver Lips so Spiteful « Reply #1 on Oct 5, 2009, 8:15pm »
liveloveburndie
They say soul mates' hearts have the same rhythm... As though out of billions of hearts, only two are in perfect unison. But hearts aren't like hoofbeats. Hoofs can pierce the dirt in cadence with thousands, the breaths falling in rhythm, the operatic screams hitting the same chords like a fucking masterpiece. And the spectators are impressed and moved and repulsed. . . in unison. Their puppeteer can really pull those strings, and those marionettes will dance like their feet were on fire, and their painted lips would never even dream of parting to complain. They like the sport; that's what they were saying. They like the analytic side of examining hearts, the trial and error. Breaking, bruising, smashing, mangling, destroying, obliterating-- but they just can't figure out what the hell makes them beat like they do. What makes them the symbol of the soul, and why some are weak and some are strong... they aren't like the other internal organs strung about in the trees like christmas decorations; hearts are so much different. They aren't decorative material, only in a matter of trophies. And boy do they like their trophies. They like the look of them, all piled together. They like the soundtrack, too, and the decorations. They can be real' creative when it comes down to it, after all, she would have never thought that ribs could make such appealing wind chimes, and the product of their artistic expression was strung about everywhere; at least, it was in her land. She was so lucky to have such a gifted Lord, and such an idiot at that. Her noncommittal attitude and appearance had him fooled to a mark; she was about as much of a sunkisser as any, only she supposed to a lesser degree, as she didn't exactly socialize and hadn't committed herself to a leader. She was more withdrawn, which made her less known, and thus the lights and darks were fooled about where her loyalties lay. Yet she still got the beatings, not just because she had a tendency to disappear, but because she refused 'affections'. Upon her pitch black hide, she-- like the rest-- bore the scars of her encounters. He was in a mood today, like he was every day. A blood thirsty mood, where he wanted to kick and bite and mangle and explore; so while he was dealing with a stubborn palomino, she had taken that opportunity to slip away. Being a traitor and a liar had its advantages, but only when she was off his property; she was still very much a slave. No better than Salvador; he had abandoned them, she had betrayed them... She was facing a rear end, which she stared at for a moment before it completely registered what she was looking at. A light stallion-- alive? alone? Hanging his head and thinking, seemingly a trend among the lights. "World cries around us, hearts cry within us... yet we are still left unanswered." She whispered, dropping her gaze to the soil before her. "We're surrounded by the answers, aren't we. Live or die. Do or don't... Fight or perish."
Re: Once More on Silver Lips so Spiteful « Reply #2 on Oct 8, 2009, 7:16pm »
If history was written by the victors, then nothing has changed. The filly that once stood before the despicable horse who so called himself Beast was no more; the insolence remained from the encounter, but nothing was learnt, nothing taken. Save for the ill fated meeting that saw the foal begin the dance called life. The mare that stalked the forest now looked nothing like the compact foal, the gangly legs had given way to a solid yet slender bodice, her head now stood a similar height to the clouds as a Kings once did before her. Yet she was as odious as ever, and had a temper to match. Fortunately, Muerte had managed to teach her something about the whims of self control and the usefulness of portraying a deceiving exterior, a skill she put to good use these days as she prowled the forest. Muerte was the name Styx called the horse whom foaled her. The illegitimate daughter of the King, Styx disowned her parentage in order to follow a path entirely her own. Her pelt bore many a mark, owing to her quick temper and liking for disagreements; she seemed to have a knack of infuriating other horses. However the one that stood out was the irregular jagged scar burned into her shoulder that had never completely healed, yet hindered her in no way, marking her for what she was. The cruel world she had grown up within was the only world she knew; lights were scum, unfit for owning their own land. However she thought that of majority of the so called darks out there she came across. The land was alive, alive with the thundering of horses hooves, of flickering shadows within the night. The sun rose and set again, yet now it did with such a vicious ferocity that most of the dammed had taken to seeking refuge amongst caves or trees. Styx however, as always, was the exception. She gloried in the rays of light that seemed to be filled with odious scorn. Once, when she was young, she had seen a red horse, glorying in the purity and fullness of the sun upon the beach, at its highest point within the sky. That particular horse was now the conquest of her daddy’s. And yet, there was never a fight; never a confrontation, which had led her to believe that the particular conquest was an empty one. The so called King had simply assumed title, quickly and easily in the absence of the scum. Ironically assuming a position in Styx’s mind similar to that of the scum. Imagine the outlaws surprise upon the intrusion of not one but two condemned horses into her world of thought and reason. They seemed to infest everything these days. Their pelts bore the marks of corrections, their heads hung in forfeit. Yes; it was simple to mark them for what they were. Styx’s first instinct, as always was to peal her lips back from her teeth, exposing her fangs and flattening her ears, coupled with her eyes constant odious expression, it was enough to move mountains. However today she slipped on an expression of false comrade. Delicate ears perked forcibly upright, into polite curiosity. Perhaps it would do her some good to converse with equines…not. ‘Greetings.’ What else could she say? Good thing she didnt care who she barged in on.
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