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Posted 07-26-2017, 11:04 PM | This post was last modified: 07-26-2017, 11:59 PM by Asclepius
Enigma
Asclepius
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.00
Meso-fighter
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel
"we are all born of decay, blue-blood, and brain."

He dressed the black rocks in images and associations; different apparitions that intruded even the dead silence of the foothills. Alone, drifting in the other world - that of night, that of dreams. Landscapes of blue, secretive beings. Dead, alive, and mid-way to ruin; it did not matter. They all crossed within its empty belly, lulled by the unseen and indiscriminate pathways their fears could attend. Free exhibitions of the dark, the aftermath. He is partial to neither periods, but the descent. He is the consumed, taken by each for its awe. For what it reassembled in his morale. It quickened him, then it began to blend, melting together in repetition. Sugar, red, decay, stillness, force and fire - he began to wander. Further and further from where his peers lulled their avarice, he draws closer to the appetites that twist him. Hunger, love, his empathy and greed are just more tools for his beguilement. Derelict objects tossed between a knuckled tension. Despite patience, contempt of remaining at the center of his void, another void closed in around him. The volcano, the urn, the horizon are tears in space that aim him inward to some flat destination. Where are you today; Who are you today? He moved his toes carefully over the ground's wrinkles, slowly working at it like the texture of a painting. The connection, the transfer of its network opened to his vein. Unpardonable. He felt them curl in the dirt below as his fur repeats the gesture. Starving, too, in their exchange. He chose will and entropy. They are his solid tutors, immediate expressions that negotiated his psychosis. Making melodies out of blood and purpose. And he would pass these instruments to her, by force if necessary. The direction he entertained as he called out to her, like wafts of incense that lured sprites from the wood. "I've come to set you free." That metallic rasp creates a film of dread on the air. Adduce nothing and the inner light makes a thorn to thunder upon the dark innocence of sensation. The mask, the finery, the charm has been removed. (More eager this time to slip and risk his position) He would serve inspiration with her, or from her.

impulse oils the crease of his flesh, as it pulled tightly over his frame. leather and pulp. sewn with black silk, like cravens, it formed the corners of his silhouette. spreading, bending with the tendons that crane his long limbs. willowy masses guiding his steps with candor. its careful symmetry inciting the land, foot by claw by wrinkled lip. his, are flat and chaffed against his jaws, as they dip against his throat. plates sift, his shoulders creating peaks that writhe along his back. they pace in direction of steps, haste was the brimming of his gait. the slow arrival, gradual chemicals that eat nerves to plastic waste. its acidic journey, slides up the length of stone steps. he feels their cracks, uneven surfaces stained by their passengers. a pulse feeds his digits, little monsters those stains. they cry, creating a tidal wave of urgency. cells still needing nourishment. perhaps the whole arena was a living thing, with a ravenous hunger. always waiting, waiting. he has waited too, and as it all rises up, he still can't fight the gnawing feeling he was not yet done. not yet there, wherever that place may be. the beginning was not, not yet his captive, his catharsis, his carrion. more would be put to motion, adapted. taken. hinds flex, making an arch to support the level of his anatomy as it sidles the broken staircase. the stone is warm to the touch, his paws manage their purchase in the grooves of each small plateau. stabilizing as his head lowered, making a skewed bridge of his figure. being intersected, his left side was shorter. the majority of his weight anchored there, evening out as he leaned back and to the right. an action he did slightly, acknowledged by ligaments hidden underneath his dark, tawny coat. his tail thrashed lightly behind him, sweeping dust and corpse-vines. brows knit as his eyes shrink, his lids slitting his pale irises that still peaked from the dusk of his features. they disturb as a howl escapes, flowing from his cheeks and vibrating his gums. he made a dark melody of each bayed wave. it was a second act, conducted out of promise for not only his contender - but lyra as well. together, would be considerably satisfying.

asclepius vs wind
for Lyra
0 of 3 moves
elements are optional. 41 EP.
35 in. x 129 lbs. meso-fighter.
poor health. dodge unused.
0 wins. 0 loss. 1 draw.

*edit: to change health and tag, i will include injuries from the plot in next post.











Posted 07-27-2017, 03:34 PM |
Enigma ( Admin )
Lyra
Enigma Wolf
Female, 3.00
Meso-runner
30 in, 105 lbs
218 ep
© Ly
AND I AM THE ARROW
THE DEW THAT FLIES
SUICIDAL, AT ONE WITH THE DRIVE
INTO THE RED

EYE, THE CAULDRON OF MORNING --

a moment of stillness in the half-light, a treasured caesura as the echoes of his howl recede from her bones. the hour feels preordained.

she enters the arena absent regalia, as wolf alone; he came not for her crown but for her very being. would niyole understand? what webs ensnared them--spun faster, now. what precarious peace they had attained was slipping away like so much sand from an hourglass. under siege by divine and mortal hands alike, the center could not hold. the unknown future hangs in suspension above them--draconic and awful--and she sees it reflected in his eyes. free her? he could not save her any more than he could command the sun. greater forces pulled them now, and she longed to slip beneath the tides, succomb to the lethal currents of fate. her smile (underwrit by the downward twist of her scar, imbuing every expression with disingenuous irony) blooms slow, trailing melancholia. he would damn her. she does not fear the fall, only the void it would create.

"my soul is not such a precious thing." velvet words, dragged as soft admission over serrated teeth. (it is bitter and blackened as summer fruit.) wind had shaped her, carved a warrior from rough bone, nourished her with thoughts of family: and she, the cuckoo in its nest, unworthy of her elevation. she devoted her flesh to their god and called it prayer. after a time, its effect had melded with her intent, such that she could no longer trace the scope of her belief. she has become the fusion of violence and divinity, a doctrine carried out with knives--the promised reckoning.

and she transmutes herself accordingly, svelte limbs squaring off three meters from the base of the stairs, weight shifting to spread evenly over bent elbows. the prelude ends. her pale fur bristles, hackles rising in scorn of his would-be intervention, ears flicking back to pin against her skull. a posture which radiates her opposition. he is no savior and she no damsel; they battle as equals. "but i will bleed for it." she beckons the beginning with a twitch of her tail, a pale sickle at hips held out for balance, claws splayed against the uneven earth. summoning forth his resolve with bared teeth and a promise--this will be a brutal becoming. a baptism in gore. she bows her head low over her throat, jaws spread, black lips peeled back in threat and malediction on her flattened tongue.

thy will be done--

she is haruko's fury made corporeal. there is a tempest contained within her heaving ribcage, wrath in her narrowed gaze shot through with her own fervent individualism. his rebellion corrupts absolutely. she feels its acidic spread take root in her heart, its burn sharp and unrelenting, but she is not so easily consumed; if he wanted her soul--he would first prove himself a worthy altar.

Asclepius vs. Lyra
for lyra
move oo of o3
five (?) days to respond

full dodge: unused
elements: on
health: i cant find the darn thing that says what health is by season. anyway here is a completed hunt
stats: meso-runner | 30" | 105 lbs. | 150 EP
experience: 4W, 1 ongoing


Niyole Divine Intervention










Posted 07-29-2017, 08:29 PM |
Váli
Unregistered
,
in, lbs
ep
© 


Their queen had been called for claiming. It is a strange thought and it makes his hackles raise. Never had he enjoyed anyone calling anyone for claiming. Singer had done it once and he couldn't remember who it had been for. He had begun to reflect a lot on his time in Fire, wondering if it had all been a waste. Had Singer been weak to fall to Finch? He shakes his head as he enters the ruins—muscles poised for battle. His head is lowered, even with his shoulders as his stance remains wide. His muzzle is dipped downward as the smell of the man hits him. Fucking Rebel. His maroon eyes flit around for Rykerri angrily, perhaps this was justification that not joining them had been right. He remains nonchalant: save for the wrinkling of his muzzle as he comes to settle into the dirt to watch in irritation.

Váli is spectating.












Posted 07-29-2017, 08:31 PM | This post was last modified: 07-29-2017, 08:34 PM by Niyole
Niyole
Rogue Wolf
Female, 3.00
Endomorph
32 in, 122 lbs
185 ep
© Elle
Lyrics reach the creamy folds of her ears as the tawny woman slips through the Hakai forest, having left the Gaia not long before, a day or two, perhaps. A call for her people to defend what was theirs. Teeth grind as the swell of her stomach reminds her of an inability to rightfully protect Lyra's freedom, though she knew her sister-Queen more than capable of self defense. She was not far from the ruins and so she made her way at an even paced jog towards the source of the call, furious over whomever felt they could challenge at the time the world might be fated to die.

Tawny limbs stretch against the rock, nails scraping carelessly as she presses across the ruins to find the man who'd beckoned her pack to some arrogant, foolish call. Bright peach eyes burn, attempting to seer through the flesh of the Rebel that stands with a fervent look to his blue eyes, sickly pools pressed into the oily outline of sockets. Her teeth flash, lips curled above them as her muzzle wrinkles in an ugly display of her broad face, a growl mixed with a snarl sending spittle multiple directions as she steps to the sidelines. Lyra already stood before the blasphemous brute and in her own predicament, Niyole can only show support from the sidelines.

"I'll have your head, for this." A promise, to the Rebel man. Head lowered between wide shoulders, she stalks to Váli's side. Fury sweeps through her body in waves, sending quivers down the length of her legs as she slips to her wide hips against the cold stone, uncharacteristic to the time of year. She would sever the skull herself and place it upon her doorstep as a morbid trophy for those Rebels who thought so highly of themselves. Let the gods look down the length of their faces at everything the Rebels were not - let Haruko's army smite them down, let the world be rid of their filth.

Sunset peach eyes draw to her warrior, a brow knitted above her sandy brow in his direction. "Rebel must pay for their insolence." Quiet, a hushed version of her normal chirping voice, meant for only Váli to hear, that they might scheme for the destruction of Rebel's devilish ways.

Niyole is spectating. Váli.


If I have not replied to you & it's been awhile please PM or re-tag me in the thread so that I don't forget it.










Posted 07-29-2017, 08:41 PM |
Freya
Rogue
Female, 1.25
Ectomorph
40" in, [75] 95 lbs
51 ep
© Violetta
No! She wailed, her small frame sprinting between the two battle worn wolves. Her salt&pepper pelt gleams under the spring sun, a whimper leaving her lips quickly. You can't take Queen Lyra! Freya wails at the Rebel man, ears pinning to her skull even as her metallic eyes narrow carefully. I won't let you! Leave her alone! It's snapped out carefully, the small pup unable to understand what he'd want with the Wind Empress. All she knew was that this man couldn't be allowed to take Miss. Lyra. Even if the she-wolf seemed aloof at times. The Wind princess almost forgets that her father is standing a few feet away, too caught up in the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Small puppo tries to defend her Queen










Posted 07-29-2017, 08:52 PM |
Earth
Loretta
Earth Wolf
Female, 4.25
Meso-fighter
27 in, 110 lbs
180 ep
© Loretta

short and poopy my b
Niyole
a quick jog, strung out for what seemed like ever. (a battle, a war among the ruins) how it was a genuinie place, a place of new sights and the feeling of the cold stone beneath her stones brought a shiver down her spine) it's a faux feeling, even as her mind races for the call of wind and their queen. a panic that consumed her in a shuffled walk, one that brought her to her sisters hip and the wailing of a child. she had brought nothing but the skin upon her back and ears that settled back. "sister.." it's a quiet plea for the anger she takes the sight of, how it raises her head-dress of a queen. no war..no war..no war.. the brief call of having heads and how ironic it felt in that moment. how similarly she had felt towards Tyrus in his claim, his kiss from her god

loretta is spectating.










Posted 07-29-2017, 10:27 PM |
Enigma
Asclepius
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.00
Meso-fighter
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel
"a giant eye, rolled over and yawned."

Free will and pleasure, he’d exercise her savage right in the wild. He did not want her to pray. He wanted her to rise up and turn her gorgon-stare towards the hearts of monsters and gods alike. To crush him, even, in the path of her pitiless sight. Blood and transformation wed them. ”You are precious.” She worshiped old, monolithic things that bid for his destruction. He is a force seeking to move her. A compound reaction. A splitting atom. Rings within the bark time leaves behind to tell stories of the woodland cenobites. No one stitches like that. There is a strategy in his desires, she is the blade and the lamb. The dark arts he chants and murders for. ”If I am the winner,” - your subjugator - ”you will abandon your post at Wind and join Rebel. And if I lose, then I am at your mercy. Does that seem fair a bargain? My soul is an equal commodity.” He was a carrier, a diseased shell that lost to its design and consumption. And though his lips, their tough muscle, part as if to murmur - rebuke her accusations. Instead of dread or revulsion, they play their part to tease a smile. In the presence of this audience, very far from laughter, he was freed. The disaster is a mirror, its flames stare back at him. Cold and colorless creatures of rage, indignity. He is captive to those feelings. Between the shape of his inner vanities, the trauma and cleansing. He is in constant rebirth, made new by the scourges of his life. They are not the tragedy of his idols. They are the will to power. She is one, of the same, as he - as damned and secret and feral. They were not sane, and it was a lie.

Destroy the authority that manufactured it. He'd swallow her god if it meant having her. She was not of this world; did not, belong the way molecules of water and metal equate. Did not corporate with the combed perimeters of standard cues or banal language. Asclepius is acclimated to; her vengeance, her honesty. She was free of routine principle, and was yet loved, by her divine promise. If it were for that immaculate skill, he could be in spite of her. She meddled in his boundary, albeit one he challenged her with. It breached his contract to space, but she is a crux in a different ordnance. It was the student, the skeptic in him, that entertained her possibility as lines to be sculpted of. It was momentous, the change that will possess her, he is watching the moon break from its eclipse new and whole. Her contest was the becoming of her. Powerful, adaption was a means of survival and those traumatized held the account for what could never be predicted. To see the breaking of that capacity, in her, challenged him in his attempt to separate his facade from his true self. Obtain the median that would grant his existence, that clarity. That belonging sentiment to the truth, he would find his animal and beauty. The hard material of his soul, intact and heavy. He did not want her to moderate herself, to cut off and compartmentalize feelings she had a right to discover and be witness to. The hidden creatures in dusty mirrors. Shadowselves.

He turns, slowly, a door opening for the first time. Something gleamed, dry-cast and etched. The fur around his face is scant, thick with the leftovers of ash and urn. Blisters line the curve of his stomach, his toes. He is a mess. All barriers and forts ruined. He gives to the gravity of chaos, he'd gamble for that image in the crystal. And this was his way of regaining control of the situation. He’d construct her fate. Direct her; unearth her as he was made vulnerable to the landscape. She'd rectify him. Dust devils. There is a part of him that wanted to see her, that needed to know she is safe. That the wrath or trickery of the Gods could not affect her again. He could be her altruist. She could be his God. His duality. His influence is violent because violence is what he understands. And the means of her certainty, a garden of bones and weeds, totems he’d build for her. Honor, every part of her. "This was meant to happen." Unbidden without passion, he was an empty room - with dusty passages and forgotten chambers. The idle space of limbo, and recession. Halls, channeled with echoes. and the bare-boards, ache to be filled. Vacancy, of the soul - and it lodged in the quiet and queer. The devourer, of time. Laurels, and redemption. It were an appetite that made bowels ache to be void. Thus, occupancy; heat; vim; ire; lust; grief; death would have him with indulgence and mad-tales. Consumption, had its way with his sinew, gene, and pulse. Its teeth, cleaved his substance to ignite where black casts of his skin are numb.

Limbs, held their composure and widen in moving. It assured the sharp bow of his shoulder's blades, the leveling of his cranium, gravity approved his mass. Toes secure the weight and grace of each placid step. Torso was at a slight incline to his hips, which remained parallel with the rest of his frame. Sinew, begins to flex and coil. The angle of his chin, swept to hide the region of his vitals. The frothing journey of his teeth are wet behind his chaffed lips, neither stirring or hissing. The silent mechanics of his maw wait for her. The scabbed network of his wounds are marks of him, badges of the Ridge's destruction. An uneven burnmark, thick and flaking, exists around his right fore-limb. Along with the clotted tissue on his upper shoulder region, tangled in bits of swarthy hair. A tenderness, more noticeable than before, rests in the joint of his left front paw. He again, does not nurture it, here it is more than a flaw to his anatomy - it is a target. And he would endure the aches of each near animation. This, this was more than a tribute to sour gods; it was a milestone to his determination. His labors. Flesh was Rebel's law, and he would serve it vigilantly. Narrowed lids stare at her, connected by the silence that exchanged better than words could invent. The terse layers of fur and fat layer over the sides of his nape, up his back. Furrowing, behind his jaw. Ears and joints, fold, as he dove mouth first, down-down; aiming for her right fore-elbow. He tilted his head as he went, to the right as to pose his throat away from her prying. His body would become an accordion, rolling his contents as a brief ram - his chest and its muscle loose for impact. Toes, spread but apt for no certain footing. Tail, thrashing behind him in waves. The tactic mirrored his breathing, deliberate and contained despite the malice his body has suffered.

asclepius vs wind
for Lyra
1 of 3 moves
elements are on. 41 EP.
35 in. x 129 lbs. meso-fighter.
poor health. dodge unused.
0 wins. 0 loss. 1 draw.

*notes: when i wrote this post, i did so offline and didn't see all the other replies. my bad for not including them. this is gettin' absolutely juicy. <3











Posted 07-31-2017, 05:24 PM | This post was last modified: 07-31-2017, 05:57 PM by Balian
Balian
Rogue
Male, 3.50
Endomorph
37 in, 133 lbs
424 ep
© Hae

The inky blot sped toward the death-lands with the furor of blind rage, appalled at the summons. How dare you,' he seethed, his inner voice a coiled hiss that spread poison through his veins. He was late. There was already a crowd gathered, and he had long since missed the introduction. It was still foreign to think of himself as an entity, as Tyrus, but he slid into place next to the Wind Queen with eyes locked onto the combatants, his gaze loaded. The rumble of a roiling snarl reverberated through his core, rifling the hackles on his spine. Words could not explain his fury, and he did not try to. It almost felt like a personal affront, a possessiveness bidden from fact and fiction. Incomprehensible, yet understandable. The wolf at Niyole's side did not bring a hint of memory to the surface, but there was something within the rugged outline of his violent frame that pleased him. He soaked in his enemy's features, drinking in every nuance of description as he imagined what it would taste like to kill again. He was not plagued by guilt at the thought.

tyrus is spectating












Posted 07-31-2017, 10:39 PM |
Enigma ( Admin )
Lyra
Enigma Wolf
Female, 3.00
Meso-runner
30 in, 105 lbs
218 ep
© Ly
AND I AM THE ARROW
THE DEW THAT FLIES
SUICIDAL, AT ONE WITH THE DRIVE
INTO THE RED

EYE, THE CAULDRON OF MORNING --

she hates what he asks of her; the metamorphosis as repugnant to her as that of carcass to rot, a deliverance by worms. but she does not hate him. twin-soul, darkling, their contention is as ageless and symmetric as sun and moon, an order imposed upon them to hold entropy at bay. he presents the terms of their duel and her smile widens--madly, bled of humor and yet mocking--"fair?" all's fair in love and war. the rules of their engagement could not so cleanly delineated. and the fallout of the battle would ripple beyond their power to contain--she feels it in the heated gaze of her pack from the sidelines, the vehemence of their condemnation. how quickly civilized wolves returned to their nature. even niyole calls for blood, and it wounds some stillborn part of her, that phantom heart which yet knows good. (more distant, now.) "win or lose, you are mine." marked by her hand. he would live or die by her decree and no one else's. "win or lose, the rebels burn." akako had purified the ridge in flames and still the godless crawled through the ashes, insectile in their devotion to a life of senseless asceticism. whatever the outcome of their fight, his wolves would suffer the same fate for eternity, a promethean fate upon their beloved rocks--and for what? she seeks his gaze to impress upon him their shared truth, the eventualities which spiral in the luminescent pools of her irises. a world order within their power to shatter and rebuild. she had showed him her cage; he would teach her the snap the bars. her will is to shape the universe.

she summons a maelstrom with a languid flick of her tail, to call him forth into the mouth of god and devour him as he would her. its roar silences the cries of their audience; they are alone within a cage of her making. and in the midst of the gale she is the eye, swathed in destruction and eerily composed, her faith an armor against the apocalyptic tides. her pale eyes are narrowed against the blinding dust that swirls around them. her vision reduced to a primordial blur as he leaps, she perceives him only by his known angle of origin and what shadows she can decipher through her limited sight. the distance between them yields her enough time to step to the left and brace, lessening the brunt of his collision such that the locus of his impact would center upon her right shoulder, knocking the wind momentarily from her lungs and bruising the skin. his teeth seize about her lower right forelimb, the last part of her to move in the sidestep and too slow to evade the attack entirely. the pain draws sunbursts upon her eyelids. she bites back her snarl, black lips drawn high over her exposed teeth. the limb he has attacked remains rooted in place as she sidles again to the left to create distance between them, chin tucked tightly against her chest to protect the vulnerable underside of her throat.

and then, serpentine, she unfurls--her low-hanging jaws snapping down and out for the top of his cranium, aiming to seize the wrinkled skin around his narrowed eyes and press tight into the eyesockets. she keeps her throat flush with the outstretched upper portion of her limb, weight distributed as evenly as it can be upon three legs and further assisted by her low position to the ground. her ears are pinned against her skull, hackles bristling over tendrils of blonde made wild with the fury of the storm. her tongue is pressed low among her teeth, breath quickened by the use of maelstrom but exhaustion still a distant thought. flesh may be the creed of the rebels but she serves a darker hand. an instrument older than the womb--her element courses hot and virile through her veins, a drug which slakes a thirst for power blood alone could never sate. she is oblivious to the red which stains the gauntlet of her limb, the crushing grind of his teeth, consumed only by her own desire to vanquish. not for god, not for him. her devouring heart has always been her own.

Asclepius vs. Lyra
for lyra
move o1 of o3
five days to respond

full dodge: unused
elements: on
health: good (spring)
stats: meso-runner | 30" | 105 lbs. | 150 EP
experience: 4W, 1 ongoing


YO JOEL that post shook me 2 my core n this reply is not worthy but anyway--here is a ~~beautiful picture of what i'm trying to describe. the black orb is clep's head. the pink angle under the wolf is just to show that she's at a closer angle to the ground than what's pictured (she's lower and her forelimb is out further). idk if it helps at all but it helped me to draw it out lol










Posted 08-02-2017, 10:52 PM |
Penance
Unregistered
,
in, lbs
ep
© 
She had heard the call, and though it took her a little longer to get there than it had the others, she was there none the less. The first thing her eyes managed to lay upon was the form of Freya, rushing between the two, and quickly, before the others were to begin there battle, she ran towards them, rushing to grab the pup by her scruff if she could and in the direction of Váli and Niyole. What the hell was going on? Right as she broke between them, the spar began behind her, and she moved towards the group that was gathering, hopefully with Freya grasped tightly within her jaws. Once she reached them, she would place the girl at her father's feet before glancing towards Niyole and Váli. "What is this about?" She seethed, metallic gaze glancing over her shoulder towards the Rebel that challenged for one of their queens. It was then that her attention fell upon Tyrus, and a look of shock appeared upon her features. "Tyrus?" She questioned, wondering where it was the male had been. Moving to seat herself next to Váli and keep a watchful eye upon Freya, she kept a close eye upon the battle at hand, while still focusing on the group she had placed herself and Freya (hopefully) in. There would be war upon Rebel for this, she could feel it within her very soul.

Runs in and attempts to grab Freya before the battle starts before moving towards the others. Penance is spectating.










Posted 08-02-2017, 11:01 PM |
Enigma
Asclepius
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.00
Meso-fighter
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel
"you are not in wonderland."

He is a component to its vague concept, the fantastic shapeless and classless secret. Strange. So very strange. She is the water that fed or wept a city. Liquid envy. That his layers waned their breaching as her's bloomed-plump. He could trace the bars and influence riddling her curves; broken, scarred portions transparent in comparison. Home, did not own her. tufts of dark hair twist beside his pinned ears, as layers of tissue bunch at the sides of his nape. his tail is an extension of balance to support his figure. dull, hard nails would graze the surface of dust and stone. wrenching from it, the momentum to propel him forward. the air, felt thinly composed then. a mass of things mediated his thoughts, smoothing them out before the knots of aggression dominated him. he would be calm through this process, feelings were clumsy. so he did not react, but chart all the avenues he could encounter. leaning, pressing, he lets the coils of his joints edge him into the gliding motion. and for a moment, as he was suspended in the certainty of crashing, he shut the hoods of his eyes. it was not to bring him to a more calm place, but anticipate. control is hollow, he is a dart in the dark. toes, rake and spread to level his mass with its vying. layers of his scruff bunch as he lowers his torso and skull, succumbing to the gravity and wind that engulfs inhibits him. he feels his momentum being manipulated like strings of a puppeteer.

the pain of their collision rattled his joints and back, leaving his surface to blush and grow hot again. every inch of him, felt the measure of his structure as it was tried. his chin, curves inward at the most able angle, and robbing his throat from lyra's reach. the terse curls of his tail, trash as a router behind him. unfurled hackles that writhe along his spine, which he keeps loose as to not stiffen the muscles that burn from his scorchmarks. a pocket of air seemed robbed as she closed his mouth near the intended target; the back of his nape. gritting as he feels their tendons move and his paw swipes out to regain some semblance of balance before it lands; the spindly confines of his fore-limb would likely sprain. there is no comfort in that. ache is a residue, of which he was a sadist for; even himself. his cerulean eyes glisten as they pry half-open. and as he felt those needle-like pricks give through the terse seam of flesh, asclepius pressed further. teeth would likely gnash until they find purchase, carving a wicked network of red that slick his fur. his weight, thrown to the left, relied mostly on his feverish distribution, which quivered from the let of this force. he wrestled with a multitude of mirrors, his version and her; caught between discipline and impulse. pain. nerves, tendons, squares of it pulsate. he allowed his paw's digits to carry the brunt of his weight and animation. adrenaline fed him only so much, but he relied on discomfort.

it was a bridge to his capability, and dead-ends. blood, a thin veil, surfaced and trickled down his shoulders. its wetness clumps with dust that caked beneath his nails and their traction. a raw tenderness kissed his face from impact, his ribs swelling with deeper breaths. there was so much more to experience. despite all that fate spun for them - he is lost to this, he is a free agent in her universe. he knows not the strangers that curse him, or the absence of his precious rebels. he knows her teeth; she will taste his carcass heart. naked, wild truth. asclepius in his own taste and cunning, can easily get lost in self-congratulation. the danger which looms over every action he perpetuates and calls justice becomes a noose. or a bridge. vanities and instincts and power compels him as ancient as her mythical powers. he has no creed, or order to subscribe to; not permanently. his influence is the beauty and rebellion of life. it changes like the blessing and hardships of seasons. it drives his impossibility to do things outside the realm of concept. he is loyal to images and vestiges of those he affected, to the webs he created and swept away. it clings to him, his saliva and narrowed eyes. each pupil dilated and fixed on nothingness. there was a craft to each joint, as if liquid, no position he could find would be convinced. he ensured his gestures were an oil spill.

they'd surround her with all the voracity of her maelstrom.

his limbs have been stretching, not coiling, with his movements. it established his weight with all his violent gestures, giving him a slight bow. he used his back left leg to anchor and supply force where she braced the front of his anatomy, torso screwed to accommodate. hackles swivel at the peak of his back, rolls of meat wave above his collar. the damage done to him by the fire has thickened it with a tough, nerveless tissue that leeks and breaks apart but registered no feeling it could prescribe to now. the sponge between his joint’s socket, pulls uncomfortably as he twists his positioning. he will wrestle for an angle, his hold hopefully deepening with the press of his canine’s puncture. with all his jerks, swinging side to side, his last is a motion fed by the momentum of his whipping mass. he swings to his left, in hopes of using lyra as leverage to swing his back end to his right - her left. his eyes, chips of ice that shrink and darken. chest, bowed as his front limbs prepared the space between them, charged with the intention to knock the underside of lyra's maw up. hinds straddle the ground as they continue their immediate rush. his mind had no contender for its logic, though aimless in contact, it knows. it craves, pacing in bars that held his transformation. release, release is near. its sweet, warm breath on his cheek, panting. things were hot and tight, instinct of panic fades into a lust. a desire for vulnerability and conquering the lines separating him from his organic self. the one not of shadowdust and indifference.

asclepius vs lyra
for Lyra
2 of 3 moves
elements are on. 41 EP.
35 in. x 129 lbs. meso-fighter.
poor health. dodge unused.
0 wins. 0 loss. 1 draw.

*notes: let me know if you have any questions, i wrote this fairly late at night so... i may be a wee bit tired. ahaha. your reply is magnificent. i just simply cannot. i'm thoroughly enjoying their chemistry. <3











Posted 08-03-2017, 03:40 PM |
Ice
Pantaleon
Ice Omega
Female, 4.00
Ectomorph
38 in, 96 lbs
101 ep
© hobs
been reading books of old, the legends &a the myths,
it was unmistakeable. her dear brother's voice was on the wind, calling for someone she didn't know, and o how Pantaleon's breath is stolen from her. Asclepius. It is anorayer and vow all in one, complex thought. Everything that made her who she was existed in a plane of time, a beginning, that involved his darker stare and the intrigue which engulfed his very being. It had been so long since she had seen him, but a twin knows the voice of its counterpart, and Pantaleon looks at her children, having weathered the drastic melting of their home, and beckons them to follow her. Being two months old, they make the journey slowly, their mother alternating between carrying one while the other two stumble along behind. It takes them some time, and the battle has commenced, but she would not shy away from joining the crowd of on-lookers. There are faces she recognizes, and while she would have been comfortable amongst the lot of them some time ago, but now she feels at odds. There was a defensiveness about her posture as she enters, three young pups about her ankles, and her eyes pin themselves to the ferocious dance between her brother and a beautiful, pale creature.

"that's your uncle," she leans down and lets sleep the information to her newest children; a proud smile on her face, eyes twinkling with mischief. we're more alike than we thought, Asclepius. it's a find, exciting thought, and she remembers the chemical dance that she'd entered with Anaxagoras. so, so alike, if the way they sought to devour one another was any indication towards her brother's intentions. Her eyes drift to the wolves around them, bites the varying dispositions of those gathered; the emotions, the tension. A frown finds her lips, and Pantaleon attempts to shepherd her young around her, beneath her tall legs, in case there is trouble. The few faces she does recognize, she gives a quiet, placid nod; diplomatic and noble in her scarred appearance. the stories our bodies will tell... and suddenly she fears her brother's attentions, of anyone he would understand what she had done when she fled that place, but it is still a conversation she would not relish having.

Pantaleon is observing with Apollo, Eurycyda, and the yet unnamed child.



""










Posted 08-04-2017, 12:58 PM |
Ice
Apollo
Ice Pup
Male, 1.00
Ectomorph
40 (18) in, 108 (22) lbs
ep
© hobs





don't you think you've had enough; Drowsy stare lingers on the fight, the trek into the ruins a distant disturbance to the young boy, taking in all that is possible within the realm of ire and passion. His features breathe of old lore, of things that had come to pass since even his mother was born, and his limbs, aching and exhausted from their journey, nearly tangle up in themselves as the quiet boy lies himself down in his left side, propping hisnshoulder against his mother's right paw and leg. Sleepy eyes, feigning boredom and indifference, lock onto the two bodies at war, the sounds of their collision, of their biting and tearing, resound in his ears. There is the temptation to shy away from those alarming sounds, the fur along his pale spine rising; giving him a ridged appearance there on the dusty floor of the Ruins. The cold winds of kiyoshi's revenge stir around him, and Apollo squints his eyes; no more used to the cold than the warmth as he endeavors to pay attention. My uncle... he identifies the wolf that looks so much like his mother, and with every movement of muscle, every shift in those powerful limbs, Apollo catalogues the ways in which such passions are wrought; confused and intrigued by them as much as he is tired. For he is quite sure, though excited and energized by the events unfolding, that he'd rather be napping with his sister and brother, and he does not relish the idea of the walk home.

""
apollo is observing














Posted 08-07-2017, 10:05 PM |
Enigma ( Admin )
Lyra
Enigma Wolf
Female, 3.00
Meso-runner
30 in, 105 lbs
218 ep
© Ly
AND I AM THE ARROW
THE DEW THAT FLIES
SUICIDAL, AT ONE WITH THE DRIVE
INTO THE RED

EYE, THE CAULDRON OF MORNING --

secluded among the crowd, world drawn to the instant of his violence, pain sapping away rational thought--she sheds her falsehoods like snakeskin. self-possessed and dynamic, she is light and purpose, an aberration in his black galaxies. and as they collide she feels the reverberations pass through her poised body and beyond. their conflict is the crucible. she melts, fluid to his angles and drive, absorbing the energy as it pulses, bruising, into her shoulder. her agony is white-hot and understanding. she endures: transmutes it to conviction, and conviction to vengeance, her strange alchemy of war. her teeth close over the back of his nape, head thrashing to tear flesh, to pull him to the same place of suffering. (enlightenment's dark sister.)

blood now sleeves her right forelimb, his jaws crushing in their grip, and she is distantly conscious of danger. her jaws drive down and out, aiming to use her grip to pressure him away from her limb and to push his head aside. his shifting weight threatens her own, though she keeps low on bent limbs, weight pooled as evenly as her position allows. the downward angle of her jaw and her outstretched limb protect her throat, though she knows it is the target of his need, and desires to respond in kind: to halt his onslaught before he can seek purchase. her tail is outstretched behind her for balance, its tip twitching to fuel the jewel at her neck. she finds a moment of clarity in her pain.

and as result she summons the wrath of her storm to heel and garlands its scything winds into the form of a twister. haruko. may the rebel blood on her teeth whet the god's appetite; may her offering yield the destruction she seeks. the twister will form at her left shoulder, its roar deafening in its proximity to her flattened ears, dust spraying up into her narrowed eyes. her vision is reduced to little more than shadows through the slits. she directs the twister forward into asclepius's right side, attempting to counter the swing of his hips with the force of the winds, to seize upon a moment of imbalance to free her limb. her breath is heavy, head growing light with the exercise of power. she allows her jaws to slacken just before the twister collides with her opponent, lest she unwittingly tether him to the spot, relinquishing her grip on his nape and pulling her chin more tightly against her chest. the bristling thicket of her hackles remains at attention, jaws spread under curled and bloodied lips. his blood, hers, it does not seem to matter anymore; the divide wavers and turns to haze, her senses battered by the sound and fury of their battle. they circle and devour each other--an ouroboros split and reunited, black and white indistinguishable through a veil of red.

Asclepius vs. Lyra
for lyra
move o2 of o3
five (?) days to respond

full dodge: unused
elements: on
health: i cant find the darn thing that says what health is by season. anyway here is a completed hunt
stats: meso-runner | 30" | 105 lbs. | 150 EP
experience: 4W, 1 ongoing


@ staff -- joel graciously ok'd an extension <3 sorry this is rushed and if anything doesn't make sense pls let me know! crazy week in the stu household










Posted 08-09-2017, 10:11 PM |
Enigma
Asclepius
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.00
Meso-fighter
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel
"… a slither of light scarred the night.

A new hunger
clung to the breast
of heaven
till
it began to bleed
a timeless light.

Becoming.
Outpouring curls of colors.

The clouds
the mud
and the appearance
swathed in shadows
& painful pulse."


he is focused with his strides, using his body to generate the amount of energy needed crash into her. his reptilian jaws snapping and sneering. they would push with his velocity and reach. he was blind to the haze of pain when gums and enamel wrapped snapped viciously at the back of his neck. their loose bend digested the impact, but his flesh was mashed and beaten in the process - the socket of his leg felt an uncomfortable pop than came with the release of fluids through bone. the area of his front-left side burned and swells. it felt bright and uncanny, physical hurt. he would let her guide his rage, center its quality to oil his machine. ears swivel, keeping close to the sculpt of his nape that bristled with his rough movements. lips peeled, a growl jerked from the hot confines of his chest. it curled about his eyes, their slits cloudy and certain in their ache. his body is a raw wound; vulnerable, in this moment of pursuit. raw and glistening. it claimed the stations below, above. inside him. the burrowed confine of rib, empty and pried. pain came before the beat, secluded in formal nestles. it waits, hidden in channels. meaty orifices, resisting a stir. to pound, and tunnel, gush from clinched vein. and the ache, to stifle its clarity with release. release, it wailed through the hallways of his skin. more than blood, or heart - it flourished beyond soul or the distance cleaved. there was no time, not for them. in this - all were gods and monsters to themselves. bound to the vast promise of the universe. the moon calls me home. now, destiny rooted in a place; as it were a gift of alchemy to be in presence with her reckoning. reality, jarred from rind. and an innocence grew around him. basic, pure. unadulterated, and timeless.

it was a violent awe. sealed on the whisper of her teeth. the challenge guided a monstrous purity in the forest of his wild heart. beef, may lose its glamour, or its sheen; but he would remain. (butcher of science and reason) his spirit, belongs in every curve. in each architecture of element that taunts him. it breathed, into him, this humility. it owns his ego, and nurtured his anxiety to compel gestures. thoughts. stirring, new memories. in the depths of his mind, asclepius felt a sense of home with his pain. it demolished his walls in ways he'd yet to fathom - the burning - the tearing. he feels he has known the caliber of an avalanche - the pulsing, quivering journey of whitehot agony. its rebel cry to the earth barring it exhale-inhale. as he could do neither, not in the wake of a claimed and then forgotten breathe. it was a luxury his lungs lack. and it wasn't until he dug in that cast debris that he was advanced. bursting with gusts and light things, ripping up the brittle sod as it went. (the crumbled pieces far too big to fling, his platforms) they unravel and climb back in. seething a network of found clarity that hailed as he caught the gleaming eyes of lyra. their beacons lock, and their silence breaks together. two pillars of nature, made to collide. he purged as he moved, tendons are the wrench his body has begun to understand. he was flung, tossed to animate as rubber might snap. limbs and ligaments burst forth. the girth of his foot's space narrows as gravity seized him.

if the death of chaos is the birth of clarity then bring me to the ground. it was the consistence of a drum, his urgency. callous rubbed as joints bend, eating at the thrum beneath his rib. (it meets the soul that wedges deep, deep into empty cups) the vacuity rakes his face, those smooth lines pitiless now. they hold their weight, in lead and sink to the heavy depths of his leer. formed in the narrow of their slits, to observe and want. he is suspended in this manner - his shape the only thing he can control as the twister swept him away. he is driftwood in the pacific. salt and aimlessness. they were a glimmer in the pool - tides reaching out and pulling back. wrung in the discovery of all that lungs could swallow, and choke. it were a heavy make-up, the let of the universe as it bared him truth. stirring, motions and atoms and peaks. the nonredeemable, folds as he pressed it in his thoughts. patterns dispersing into the notes gathered by honing instinct. sense and nerve made little variance. the now appeared to him, a pallet to drag his ache over. his mind's teeth would pull the fabric at each seam, and find the clarity in his skull. as it fled from him - as the darkness consumed all he knows. he was the quiet wanting of a soul undone by its cavity. he has spilled in every unseen crevice and though it all floods - he was there, a broken cup above her on the steps. an offering for her alter. flesh had betrayed him as much as his narcissus.


asclepius vs lyra
for Lyra
3 of 3 moves
elements are on. 41 EP.
35 in. x 129 lbs. meso-fighter.
poor health. dodge unused.
0 wins. 0 loss. 1 draw.

*notes: this was the most exciting spar i've had in a while. thank you, ly! alas, it would be fair to assume he has lost. all his injuries from the akako plot and his little to no knowledge of wind's powers, ultimately did him in. he is now unconscious and at lyra's disposal. oh my. i'd like for ly to post next. take your time, dear, i know you're busy. i'm in no rush either. <3











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