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[rebel] god is dead
Posted 08-30-2017, 07:47 PM |
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.25
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel
"man is a rope, tied between beast and overman."

Nature was not meant to be cut off, or managed. It was fluid, as his anticipation for this moment is water. He spilled through Ridge, cogent and in agony for change. Grasp at what survived, and grew in the bones of absence. Drawing back in the fits of Gods and Men, he found peace in calamity. Hope, however shapeless or ill-formed, fused his motivation. A world of colors open up and he leans forward. Inspiration presented itself with all the viciousness of an unrequited feeling, whatever the concept or trial. It finds him. The truth, always found him. Destinies seared into his flesh. Its brand now thorny and sentient. A role eclipsed by the eons it has been an instrument to - yet its strength was in the unwavering of its mechanics. A wave, a surge of everything denied raised forth to sweep away the doubt established by those weaker than their tamed senses. It was privilege, and fear, to assume the difference. Masks, all their beguiling details, had no sway but for their method. His scars kissed by fire, among those others paving his flesh, were all the marks he accounted for his past. And its telling reality, appeared like he did the dark. Wisdom of sinew led him though a winding, southern path hidden in the uneven brick. Limbs bend and vault him down the steep rockwork towards the Ruins. Bathing its secrets and depths in moonlight. The color of deep-sea fishes. In the state of always mirroring, he has been reconstructed by that mirror. Their mirrors, a labyrinth of selves and images come then fled. He lived on the border of imagination, of fear, of potential. This was his shore and he were its bridge. A gift he could only give himself. Avenues produced a violent traffic, so lively and organic that he has never seized something so outside his realm of pathology. Or was it? He is not the carbon print of his father; he has proven his capacity to love. He serves the individual self, the will to power. Animal and beauty. Not to reign over others, but within, to exercise the liberties afforded to those that will bleed for it. That is his justice for the Ridge, create a world that lives to go under and be the overture.

He will not be the first to become intimate with his nature, merge with the indiscriminate ecosystem established in the high rocks. He will not be the first source of Overman, liberated from traditions and self-resistance. He did not give in to the horrors and moral depravity for which he has evolved to. For the future of progress, he claimed his fate. His reality. His phenomena. The Ridge was a mural, (the interpreted symbol) teeth-sewn and coated in the resin of their heretic sin. He could weave his mark in, but this was not a collaboration. The majesty of becoming was not a dilution of power carried over but down. It must possess an individuality, a severance from the rational it has come to exhibit. Condition was best utilized when tried. This was not a love story. He sought to evoke and expose the rooted urges it can hone. That would mean he should act without comfort or favor. She had told him to conquer. His spirit compelled him to act. He is acclimatized to violence. This is the only way. Write my echo down in blood. The digits of his toes, flex and knead at the shallow dust that covers the barren part of the arena. He finds its center. The coils of his legs, widen and bend to accommodate his mass. It allows his figure to level with gravity. His ambles, his skull descends between the peaks of his shoulder blades. Thick tuft of muscle, wrinkled along his neck as his head lowered. Fur and fat, creased beneath his chin as his face arched downward to view the darkness. Lids, become heavy and narrow, glaciers of an opaque blue that gleam as he begins to howl for her. His queen. It coiled in his guts, grit and gravel, erupting in all the haste of his declaration. Thresholds, accelerate, breaking the folds of his throat to resonate over his gums. A noise that woke the tiers of chains all animals and earth exist for. He was not here to ask or give. That is not the nature of Wolf, that is not the Redmen way. Asclepius wanted more than the history his gene has rooted. He craved resurrection and retribution, separate entities that sighed in gross abandon.

Asclepius vs Charlotte
for rebel alpha rank
0 of 5 moves
five days deadline
elements are optional. 63 EP.
35 in. x 130 lbs. meso-fighter.
good health. dodge unused.
0 wins. 1 loss. 1 draw.

notes: any questions or if you need an extension, pm me. i know you just got back from camping, so i don't want to rush you. i want this to evolve organically. i wish you luck and i'm excited to spar with you. <3

Posted 08-30-2017, 08:10 PM |
in, lbs
The eruption of a challenge soars over the world, visceral and pointed in nature. Anaxagoras bends to it, one ear yielding to the noise while the other presses forward upon his crown as it lifts toward the devil's ruins. Intrigued, the king of ice abandons his practice of lesser powers, feeling his sluggish heart ease back into motion in tandem with his fluid gait. As he descends from the southern borders of Kiyoshi's kingdom, Anaxagoras will not have to travel long - or far - to reach the arena. He crosses into Styx Heights, clearing the Naveen's shallow stretch in a single bound; it carves a path through Doutaini, the same one he follows now, as it cuts directly through the dust-dredged stretch of land which sports the blood of victors and fallen foes alike. Skirting the piles of rubble and inconsequential trees, Anaxagoras comes to rest at the ruin's edge, with his sun-forged eyes focused upon the contender. He squints at the man, as though trying to see him in the right light; it is not because he recognizes him - well, not exactly - but because he bears a striking resemblance to the mother of his children. Though he remains silent, his frame poised as he seats himself on the outskirts, the sight of Asclepius stokes a ferocious fire in his thoughts. The knot of his swarthy brow deepens as he inspects the challenger carefully, rummaging through his details as though they were intimately acquainted. Pantaleon, he thinks, urging her with all the strength in his heart to join his side. If nothing else, she must witness the anomaly before him; that, or lend him a deeper knowledge of who this bare-necked wolf is, and what brings him to desire Rebel with such unbridled fervency.

anaxagoras is spectating.

Posted 08-30-2017, 08:20 PM |
Earth ( Admin )
Earth Alpha
Male, 3.25
34 in, 118 lbs
502 ep
© ev

“In our village,”
folks say God crumbles up the old moon into stars.

― aleksandr solzhenitsyn, one day in the life of ivan denisovich

mars hears the call for a challenge and cannot deny that he has to be there- he has to see who wins for the earth kingdom's sake. his ears twist and his eyes flick towards the ruins. the last time he was there, zinna had been defeated. his heart was broke from that, yet, he is on his feet as he trots from the gaia towards the ruins. his eyes settle on the distance, speeding into a run. his body is made for that, running. he arrives after a short run, long legs stretched as he arrives on the sides of the arena. he sees a rebel wolf that he has met once before, before he was rebel. his eyes settle on anaxagoras who has sat already, he made his way to the man. without a word, he sits. his eyes flickering towards the ridge, how would the rebel's alpha take this? they were all so hard-headed, which was good in a sense, but still. would this be to the death? he had no clue. mars glances to the ice king as he gives a subtle nod before his eyes flicker back to the arena, trying to mentally prepare himself for the bloodbath about to come.

mars is spectating.

searching to find myself but all i see is you,
i can hardly stand myself so, what am i to you?

Posted 08-30-2017, 08:26 PM |
Rogue Wolf
Male, 1.00
[A] 37 in, [A] 138 lbs
10 ep
© chapin.
salvatorus troy dalmasca
Moving witht he grace of any pup, curious as to where his dad was off too. He didn't think the call was for him, but maybe it was. As he skipped and hopped along the path marked by his father scent, reaching the river and crossing it as well. Following the broken grass left by his father's much larger paws. He entered the arena and moved with caution, but still skipping along the free-to-play on rocks. “I seen him fight afore, he's pretty good I think!” He'd forgotten why his mother took them to that spar in the past, but here he was again; this time iwth another parents - kind of. Moving to sit beside his father, curling the innocent tail around his legs. He would attempt to lean slightly against the man, should he allow it.

“I'm not scared of you.”

salvatorus is spectating

in group threads please do not tag me unless it is my turn

Posted 08-30-2017, 08:53 PM |
Rebel Pup
Female, 1.25
14 in, 34 lbs
0 ep
© Fluttershy

anything to stay alive!

those ravenous bastards! always get what they're after. Praelia had been relaxed since the Akako debacle. She had found a little higher of a den to call her own (still near to mother, but it got very crowded now...). She had been laying half in and half out of it, before hearing the call for her mother in the ruins. She lifted her head, having grown finally into her paws and ears (her lanky legs were another story). A quick stretch, and she pulled herself out of her tight fit den. She took a stroll gracefully now, towards the fighting grounds and pulled herself on her legs upwards and upwards out of the Ridge, closer and closer to the call. She recognized the sound of the voice and tilted her head, allowing herself to trot to get there faster. It was a challenge, a challenge against her mother, and she desperately needed to get there, to be there. As she came upon the scene, her place taken on a ledge overlooking the chosen field, her sapphire eyes were casted down to the perpatrator, the one who called for this duel, and she laid down onto her belly, front paws crossed in front her, face emotionless in staring.

Praelia is spectating

Posted 08-30-2017, 10:32 PM | This post was last modified: 08-30-2017, 10:33 PM by Chouette
Ice Wolf
Female, 2.25
38 in, 81 lbs
0 ep
© faun
the call wasn't for her, but her curiosity is piqued all the same as she makes her way to the ruins with long strides. she notices the scents of anaxagoras and mars, and relaxes as she circles the dusty arena and finds a place to sit, leaning against a spire of ruddy rock. she'd never been here, but its purpose was clear, from the stale bloodstains poorly hidden beneath the dust, and the scuff marks of paws and body on the ground. the air is charged by a visceral energy, one that makes her hackles rise and her blunt claws score lines in the ground. other people crowd around the man who had called for a fight, and she notes that most do not have a necklace, and yet they do not smell of rogues. they are rebel, she assumes, those who do not have magic. and he looked like a rebel, too:

his eyes were that of a true predator's, his hair mussed by wind and fire. she shivers beneath the intensity of it all, of the tension that was sure to snap. her heart and head pounds; she has not realised that she was holding her breath. there would be bloodshed.

chouette is spectating.

Posted 08-31-2017, 09:28 AM |
Enigma ( Admin )
Enigma Wolf
Female, 3.25
30 in, 105 lbs
240 ep
© Ly

the howl carries to her eyrie atop the world, stripped by the winds to a ghost of a sound; and still she knows the source. she listens as it fades, lingers for a moment in the silence of its aftermath, ripe with the multifoliate possibilities of the future. she does not know the rebel queen addressed; holds no real interest in her fate, though it butterflies lyra's own. as she makes her way to the ruins, fleet-footed over rocky crag and hill, it is only asclepius who concerns her. his brutal philosophies and her clandestine mandate. and still when she sees him there is a sense that she has been here before--the imprint of a revisited past against the black of her eyelids--a sense of destiny, which sets her teeth on edge, fair hackles bristling over her scarred nape. her stony aspect suggests something feral just beneath the surface. agitation rises in waves from her coiled frame, every muscle tense with the anticipation of battle and her own conflicted thoughts, and she holds herself apart from the crowd. recognized faces go unremarked. her feverish gaze cleaves to the challenger, as though she could press her thoughts to his skull with heat alone; i do not know if this is right, i do not know what we have wrought. and ringing clear above all else: there can only be blood. uncertainties purged in flesh. she only wishes it was hers to cut.

lyra is spectating.

Posted 08-31-2017, 07:42 PM | This post was last modified: 08-31-2017, 07:43 PM by Charlotte
Rebel Alpha
Female, 5.75
40 in, 100 lbs
399 ep
© Lou

She'd not hide from wrack and ruin and the blood and gore of her ancestors, those past and present with their nagging need to fill a void that was untraceable. The Gods had turned against them and Charlotte had reared out of defiance, out of loathe and angst. The purest of evils, she had disappeared in hopes to find redemption, her own salvation, but what found her was worse. The ruins' greet her like an old friend, burns healed and scaled over, they merely leave scars that lay jagged across her entire body, her face, her neck. She is a mess of silver lines and poking bristles of dirty fur, a monster descending upon a crowd quick to appear for bloodshed. she would not give them the satisfaction. His call wounds her, deep enough to penetrate what soul unravels inside her ribcage for the pumping muscle of heart tissue and blood had stilled all so long ago. "Asclepius," her voice is as haggard as her appearance as she comes, tail stilling behind her hind legs, her ears lowered to meet the angled frame of her neck as it hinders beneath her shoulder blades. His claim irks her and under any other circumstance she would have enjoyed ripping his throat free from his neck, but pneumonia holds her hostage in a body she has grown to despise. She is no longer a queen, no longer an empress- she is wolf, she is feral. Lips lift from fangs, the pressure pushing oozing green from her nostrils, that of which clumps at the corners of her eyes in drying particles, if he nears her the sickness would jump, something she thought of as an advantage but she was in no state to fight him today. A cough, a wheeze, and she turns those snarling features towards him, "it is nice to know what you had come home for," she hisses through a throat that burns bright, but those eyes are utterly empty. "you may take my crown, brother, but I plead with you to not take my home," without the ridge; Charlotte would perish. In front of those who stood there, as she wades in the space before him; the once queen now leaking with a sickness that could easily take her last breath, bows before the King- take it all, for someday dear, I'll take it back.

notes; charlotte hands over the crown and asks to remain in rebel. she has pneumonia that will most likely kill her (if I decide) so is not fighting.

Charlotte is riddled with scars from head to toe, the right side of her face is bare of fur, and both her ears are in tatters at the tips.

Posted 08-31-2017, 07:58 PM |
in, lbs

He expects to see a fight. After all, that was the purpose of this call. A fight. A battle to see who remains or conquers the throne. Yet, Bjorn was hopeful to see his queen win, once more.

Yet, that's not what happened. When Charlotte finally arrived, him about a minute after her, sitting next to the other to watch such battle, he only sees his world falling. She offers him the crown of Rebel Alpha, and Bjorn's blood freeze in fear. Or burns in anger. Maybe both. "No!" He opposes, jumping into the middle of the arena, standing in front of Charlotte, his orange gaze turned to her. "Don't do this my queen!" He basically shouts, nervous and anxious, feelings his muscles tremble and bones shaking. He fears for his pack and his mother-queen. No one, besides her and gone Rykerri, could rule the ridge so perfectly. His head moves to the challenger, Asclepius, who Bjorn knows so little about.

His hackles raises, legs taking space, head lowering between the shoulders. His ears bend to the skull, upper lip revelaing his sharp teeth and even the pink of his gums. The tail was staight between his slighly bending hind legs. He was ready. "Let me fight, Charlotte" He asks, orange eyes forward to the opponent. The bear shall not lose.

Bjorn asks for Charlotte's permission to fight for her.

Posted 08-31-2017, 08:13 PM |
Rebel Sub-Alpha
Male, 3.00
37 in, 140 lbs
149 ep
© Apax

i don’t pay for suits. my suits are on the house or the house burns down.

late, and the irony to that. to that idea that he practically watches over the clay and stone that marks the ruins as once. the heat, swollen as it dares to suffocate him is no longer as bad. it is no longer something that bothers, lips permanently fevered with the rage of the flame and toes that have no care to what stones they step on. he is slowed, but his times had been growing smoother. his travels more to the toe as he found life with the stiffness of his joints. he had found a new gait, awkward as it may be.

he smells it before electric eyes consume it, Charlotte on her knees and Bjorn begging for her sword. cautioned eyes, his hips that catch short and he is smooth. a head that hangs low, lips that part with the dryness that his whole body held. "bjorn, it isnt your fucking fight." there was no tone to his lip, there was no eagerness that wanted to fling himself infront of the dying creature who sat on her knees. history was repeating itself, only he with the dying rykerri, and bjorn with the dying sister queen. there is only that brief moment in his approach, in the way his left shoulder sharply into his right. "take her to famine." the wear of teeth, how lips rise in a brief situation that keeps his digits spread out among the clay. singular eye poised, focused on the man that pulled him from the flame; deep ocean blue. and in the silence it is how he stands there; his lips taken high and a tail that had found a curl amongst his spine. (furless, patchy, it is mangled with the signs of regrowth)

Posted 08-31-2017, 10:47 PM | This post was last modified: 08-31-2017, 10:47 PM by Barbados
Male, 6.00
37 in, 135 lbs
149 ep
© hobs
STAFF NOTE: Joel requested to edit her post, so until it has been posted, please hold off on posting. The next post to be edited will be Valerian's, after that, everyone may resume their regular posting<3 thank you for your patience

Posted 08-31-2017, 10:59 PM |
Enigma Wolf
Male, 4.25
35 in, 130 lbs
63 ep
© joel

Her spurs brush against his callus, an instinctual twitch fell his right shoulder. It is a multitude of lashes that goad him closer to her, even as her flock turned at her feet. Pink and hairless, his scars and her scars. They did not forget. He did not blush at her words, but accepted her anger as that of a mother protecting its young. He wished to build a foundation all of them can elevate from. A station, a realm of which they can foster impossibilities. Be their true, authentic selves. "Charlotte," he crooned, he pardoned. "You are mistaken." A pause, his lips moisten the black corners of his mouth. "I am not here to conquer." He leans in, the sweet smell of sickness on her breath, on his breath. This is a cathartic moment for her only. It trailed on the milk of her frustration, that he could soothe it with his cool rivers. She is family; blood, of his blood. His nearness is a condolence, a prophecy of blood and bone. "I do this because it is our way. The Old Way. I do this to prove that I am your equal, as I will you to be mine. Rebel must have a queen." His father's lessons slithered behind each perspective and each motive he interjects. A product of predators.

notes: asclepius is offering charlotte the sub-alpha rank and to be her equal (same permissions, ect.) in rebel. short and sweet to keep things moving. i'd like for us to have a private thread if you have the time, lou. <3

Posted 09-01-2017, 10:37 PM |
Male, 6.00
37 in, 135 lbs
149 ep
© hobs
STAFF NOTE: After speaking with xechi about Val's interactions, this thread is now open to posting and can continue. ^^ Thanks for your patience<3

Posted 09-01-2017, 11:25 PM |
Male, 6.00
37 in, 135 lbs
149 ep
© hobs

Oh there we were;
the sun hit the starboard,
And we were as
free as we could be.
We waited for land;
oh we waited for thee
We aimed to stay calm and cool,
But that sea was just
a gambling fool
he'd taken his time to recuperate within the Ridge, had laid eyes on the goings on in the lands below, and he was eager to return to what children he had left; a needling desire to see how they'd fared while he was away. Again, you bastard. So weary of himself and his heart, he'd found himself enjoying the company of these wolves; enjoying their lifestyle and their camaraderie. It reminded him of home. If only the sea held such wolves. enamored as he was with Rebel, he had responsibilities, and three growing children, adopted or not, to return to. No doubt Trafalgar, the man that he was (I blinked and he grew), might take him for a fool when he gets back. And Tennyson too, he worries what he must think. Galápagos and Tortuga would probably forgive him the fastest, but what more could he have done besides call them across the whole land to an unfamiliar place during what appeared to be a war from heaven against the wolves that lived here. Doutaini was not safe, the lands smelled of the sea, and the sea was too far away for that to make sense, and this call...Barbados found his leg stiff as he walked across the expanse of the Ruins, still working out the last weeks of healing, the skin of his left leg felt stiff and he had to stretch it with a walk every morning, trailing after the sickly scent of Charlotte with his gut churning nervously.

my children
my pack
my friend.

Whilst all of Doutaini went mad, here the Rebels were, going about life amidst the chaos, and by the beard he admired it. But that did not detract his concern from the proceedings as he appears on the scene, eyeing this wolf, Asclepius, with his swarthy gaze; impassive aside from the slight droop of his lips at the corners when he glanced to the haggard state of Charlotte. The tail end of Asclepius's offer rings in his ears, and he makes his way nearer the brazen queen in her brittle state. Out of the corner of his remaining eye, Barbados notes Praelia in the crowd, and offers her a friendly smile; happy to see the girl out and about. Seems I make my way across this land a lot. He doesn't see Verona amongst them, and there is a stab of worry on his gut that comes out of nowhere. You're going soft, Barbie. She could take care of herself, that girl, he knew that. Shaking his head at himself, he focuses on the main act. There are two males standing before Charlotte, offering and demanding things separately; both were recognized by the Marx wolf as he slides up beside Charlotte on her left, better to fix her with that concern lacing the expression in his remaining right eye.

"You're a glutton for punishment, my friend." Softly, almost as if to draw her attention solely to himself, Barbados endeavors to be close enough that she might rest her willowy frame against his shoulder; not daring to offer a fellow fighter that help less she request it if him. He was certainly more than willing to repay the kindness she'd shown him, the heroism, in getting him off her mountain that day. He aches for her, truly; empathizing with her inability to fight for her home. It would have driven him mad. Like attempting to fight death. It was the species of frustration he knew well: the helpless kind. And he wonders if her pride will allow her to take Asclepius up on his offer. He looks to the wolf, then, briefly; offering only the slightest tilt of his head in greeting. The quick acknowledgment to a fellow survivor and fighter in this life. His dark gaze slides past the new leader, landing on the trees in the distance. He is filled with a disquietude about the earth wolves, wondering, should Charlotte need more than what her own healer could offer, if Loretta would disregard her Alpha's decree and help if he asked. It is a thought saved for later as he shifts his attention back to Charlotte, wondering what this unlikely friend of his would do next.


lyrics from gregory alan isakov's 'that gambler the sea'
Barbados is observing and comes in to stand beside Charlotte be supportive of and concerned about her health.

Posted 09-02-2017, 01:17 PM |
Rebel Gamma
Female, 4.75
40 in, 80 lbs lbs
54 ep
© Sylvirr
She arrives late--- but only late enough to have missed the general outcome of the fight. Brows furrow as Charlotte's haggard breathing resonates in her ears, and they swivel, pinning back sharp against her skull as her lips peel back in a scowl as she makes her way towards Charlotte without so much as a passing glance nor greeting to those who gather around her, and peers the Queen dead in the eye with eyes as black as an abyss,"You. Come." How DARE she go off and allow herself to fall into such disrepair! Such a shameful condition. It is this that vexes her, though her annoyance truly stems from concern, for while she had joined Rebel only because she saw no reason to pledge herself to gods deemed unworthy, the heathen group had grown upon her and the old rattlebones of a witch had officially found herself worrying about the care of those in her charge--for yes, they were in her charge.

With no wounds to care for, no fight having occurred, she turns swiftly upon her heels and sharply, stilted limbs carrying her gossamer form back towards the ridge, for it was not WOUNDS she needed to prepare to care for, but illness, and such an illness it was.

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