In Dire Straits

Roleplay => Alteron => Isle of Glass => Topic started by: shar on June 19, 2017, 05:00:25 AM

Title: A Thirst for Melodrama [Isengrim]
Post by: shar on June 19, 2017, 05:00:25 AM
The howls, growls, and screams of the angry and dying filled the air like a melody. The crackle of flames served as a backing track to the death song. All of it driven by the bass line - her own heart hammering in her ears loud as thunder. Shar sprinted along, her head held low, moving with a odd sort of grace for such a large wolf. Others might have been a bit tense, after all, she was deep in the heart of enemy territory. Yet not Shar, if anything - she had bravery and bravado in spades.

No, Shar was filled with a certain giddiness. A child-like glee. The Rosas commanded her to rip these outsiders a new one and the Ashigaru was all too happy to oblige. Equal parts cruel irony and warning Shar craved substance, craved something more from life. She craved art and music and flesh to sink her teeth into and refuse to let go. Her mismatched eyes peered around, peeled for any sign of danger.

She fully planned on earning a few new scars if nothing else - and inflicting some. Fire did scare her on a primal level. The red dragon's evil spread across the thick forest and grassy knolls of the isle with alarming speed. Shar avoided the flames when she could, skirting around them and maintaining a safe distance unless hard pressed. Yet not too far - she craved all adrenaline like a fish craves water. There were moments where she had the inclination, no, the impulse to sprint full-tilt into the flames and let the dragon's fire scorch her.  Fear was as much a drug to her as bloodlust.

After all, it was only in moments of terror that a creature truly knew itself. What better time to learn who you really were than the Ragnarok itself?

A nearby scream caused her ears to perk up, head lifting as her broad square head tilted at the sudden sound. One of them? One of us? Whomever had made that sound was close - something a different creature might have found rather concerning. Shar merely found it curious. The din of the dying was so intriguing! She rather liked this battle song - it was primal, all fire and rage and fear. Smoke stung at her eyes and made breathing far more difficult than she would have liked or she might've hummed along. Stealth was not her particular forte, afterall, but then again... she wanted to be found.

Scheherazade. Chinesis. Shekinah. She mouthed the words rather than spoke them aloud. This was no place for words, even holy ones. They would only sully the song. Here, Shar only knew the song of war and she was all too eager to show off her virtuosity.
Title: Re: A Thirst for Melodrama [Isengrim]
Post by: Isengrim. on July 01, 2017, 02:33:57 PM
( smoke from the island was like a curtain — opening and closing as he passed through it, revealing his ravenous nature to all, breaking bones and bloodied flesh serving as the primal instruments to the sinister play. The rhythm of battle was frenetic, more intense than in most battles wolves could ever hope to attend. But it was erratic, to put it mildly. Time had become abstract — a notion muddled by a endless circle of repetitive motions. The place where everyone was busy turning each other into a bloody pulp was also becoming  something of a parody of itself — blackened earth, burnt up trees and ashen atmosphere adorned the land with a choking presence. A husk of what was, and what could have been. The bubble in which the bacchus was stuck was almost surreal — the thin line between a feverish dream and reality vanishing more and more as the War went on.

But even in this dantean vision, victory’s taste was… lacking.

He’d met many targets and many victims… but Isengrim had yet to meet decent adversaries. Even though he enjoyed the frenzy all the same, few wolves had managed to truly surprise him, to truly withstand his fury and unleash their own. Even in this life and death situation, shackles seemed to hold back souls… The minor wounds adorning his body were proof enough of that — shallow cuts which would leave no trace when the fever of battle would attenuate. Every side seemed too busy with not getting fried up to have their focus entirely on the fighting.

Some cynical part of him whispered into his  ear — inevitable. And he bowed his head, listening, approaching a little closer, a rush of adrenaline making him smile reluctantly, blood staining his maw like war paint.

No. Not yet.

Fire was a dysfunctional tool, at best, but the dark striped and mountainous beast wasn’t going to let it win this. Thankfully, for all its shortcomings, the flames were also practical — slowly becoming hypnotizing lures, seducing and entrancing. Many wolves had fallen to its serpentine movements…
and one more seemed to be on the way.

As he dispatched a lost cultist along their agonizing screams, and chased away some blood off his eyes, the bacchus saw another candidate for his violent indulgences through red lenses. It seemed his new adversary lusted for attention… The god adoring degenerate’s approach was unsubtle, almost a taunt — appearing in plain sight as if the raging battle was a mere kindergarter’s playground. A rather gutsy thing to do, in such circumstances. He could certainly respect that…

Isengrim’s mood considerably lightened at this development, and he quickly decided to honor the sudden appearance with an appropriate answer. With a quick lick of his chops, the beast lunged forward, displaying the same amount of straightforwardness as the smaller wolf —which was far too much for any sensible mind. But he lived for battle. And by judging by this one’s manners, he wasn’t the only one here.

As he aimed for the neck of the curious cultist, jaws stretching wide, a smile curved his lips upward. He never said a word either. Language was weak compared to the accuracy of teeth and claws.