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+--- Thread: Ouroboros Spine even atlas cannot stand forever (/showthread.php?tid=23504)
even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - October 13, 2017
The sun had begun to set when Drogon had slipped out of Moonspear’s territory, much too wired to sleep. It’s getting easier, though, to sleep in a claimed land and for this he is glad. His old habits died very hard but anything was better than nothing and he’d known that accumulating to pack life would be a slow and arduous process ( though pleasantly it’s not half as bad as he first assumed it to be ). His den, however, is still out. Drogon’s not sure that he’ll ever be able to force himself to take shelter within a den without feeling like he’s trapping himself, locking himself in a cage for slaughter. He’s contemplated climbing the Spear a bit to see if there’s a cave he can seek bedding sanctuary in …if that would make any sort of difference or not.
His purpose is not to aimlessly wander as he sets out, closing the distance between himself and Ouroboros Spine. He’d caught the scent of an small deer herd. Between his warrior lessons he’s been trying to keep track of the migrating herds as they pass along and through Moonspear, cataloging their migration patterns and the neutral territories they appear to favor when they stop to graze or bed down for the night. The leijona does not necessarily mind the tracking part of the task — no doubt it can be used to assist with his mercenary trade ( especially if tracking became necessary ) — but he can only spend so long watching a herd sleep or graze before he’s going bored out of his mind.
The small herd has bedded down in the forest at the cusp of Neverwinter and the Spine so Drogon lets them be but because he is not ready to return to Moonspear quite yet, ventures into the Spine. There are a few coniferous trees, defiantly left standing but mostly it’s a giant mud pit: he discovers as he steps in it and his paw is sucked into the mud with a loud squelch. He cringes and retracts his paw skirting around the mud to earth that feels stable, determined to explore further.
His purpose is not to aimlessly wander as he sets out, closing the distance between himself and Ouroboros Spine. He’d caught the scent of an small deer herd. Between his warrior lessons he’s been trying to keep track of the migrating herds as they pass along and through Moonspear, cataloging their migration patterns and the neutral territories they appear to favor when they stop to graze or bed down for the night. The leijona does not necessarily mind the tracking part of the task — no doubt it can be used to assist with his mercenary trade ( especially if tracking became necessary ) — but he can only spend so long watching a herd sleep or graze before he’s going bored out of his mind.
The small herd has bedded down in the forest at the cusp of Neverwinter and the Spine so Drogon lets them be but because he is not ready to return to Moonspear quite yet, ventures into the Spine. There are a few coniferous trees, defiantly left standing but mostly it’s a giant mud pit: he discovers as he steps in it and his paw is sucked into the mud with a loud squelch. He cringes and retracts his paw skirting around the mud to earth that feels stable, determined to explore further.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - October 29, 2017
The wraith moves silently through the glade, making her way towards the direction of her former home with no intention of stopping by. She has come for her son, Atshen, whom she had promised eternity and left behind with the intention of returning. She had not. However, the woman had not forgotten her words: take my crown. Since then, she had wondered what became of it. Had he ruled with the confidence she believed he held? Had he forfeited to the pressures of those within? Never would she entertain the idea that in a bittersweet reality, her beloved son no longer lived. It would break her, push her beyond the plane of earthly comphrension with a desire to set the world aflame, watch it burn and then jump in herself. Unknowingly to her, such a fate would come in due time, but for now, the monarch walks steadily with an intent, an intent to see what has become of the land she used to know.
A loud queltch pulls her from her reverie into the consious world, and her head snaps instantly in the direction from which it came. She is unguarded, unprepared to face anyone just yet, and unlike herself, she finds that she is less than willing to investigate the sound. This is not her home anymore, and it has not been for several months. Those she knew have come and gone, and her formerly revered reputation has faded away with the north wind. The formerly prized red mark upon her shoulder has lost its prominence upon her shoulder, as well. This time, she has none behind her, for those who have sworn their fealty to her being lie far beyond the teekon in a land much harsher than the imfamous dark woods. Instantly, her mind wanders to Bane, whom she has not felt the touch of in many moons, and whom her heart extends wholly and only to. She risks them in returning to place she lost it all, and that simple fact is the driving nail which causes her to thunder forth, knowing that she, who has conquered more than many will in their entire lifetime, will not be the one crept up on.
A hostile growl develops from within her as she draws nearer to the cause of the sound, hackles raised cautiously in a familar anticipation of one of the many enemies she had hoped to avoid upon her return. However, upon pushing through the thick growth of mud and trees, what stands before her is someone she has never seen before; someone who almost matches her husband's imposing stature, but accompanied by a youth she finds to be quite odd. If not for the pale-stirke markings, she would have mistaken this for her son. A low, yet audible release of air escapes her maw as the breath she had been holding in, in anticipation of who he may have turned out to be. She does not recognize him as one of her enemies, and for that, she halts the progression of her growl, but retains the stance of a woman without the patience to deal with those who have a bone to pick with her, just yet.
A loud queltch pulls her from her reverie into the consious world, and her head snaps instantly in the direction from which it came. She is unguarded, unprepared to face anyone just yet, and unlike herself, she finds that she is less than willing to investigate the sound. This is not her home anymore, and it has not been for several months. Those she knew have come and gone, and her formerly revered reputation has faded away with the north wind. The formerly prized red mark upon her shoulder has lost its prominence upon her shoulder, as well. This time, she has none behind her, for those who have sworn their fealty to her being lie far beyond the teekon in a land much harsher than the imfamous dark woods. Instantly, her mind wanders to Bane, whom she has not felt the touch of in many moons, and whom her heart extends wholly and only to. She risks them in returning to place she lost it all, and that simple fact is the driving nail which causes her to thunder forth, knowing that she, who has conquered more than many will in their entire lifetime, will not be the one crept up on.
A hostile growl develops from within her as she draws nearer to the cause of the sound, hackles raised cautiously in a familar anticipation of one of the many enemies she had hoped to avoid upon her return. However, upon pushing through the thick growth of mud and trees, what stands before her is someone she has never seen before; someone who almost matches her husband's imposing stature, but accompanied by a youth she finds to be quite odd. If not for the pale-stirke markings, she would have mistaken this for her son. A low, yet audible release of air escapes her maw as the breath she had been holding in, in anticipation of who he may have turned out to be. She does not recognize him as one of her enemies, and for that, she halts the progression of her growl, but retains the stance of a woman without the patience to deal with those who have a bone to pick with her, just yet.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - October 29, 2017
There is a hostile growl that originates near Drogon’s position and the blue-black hackles along his spine bristle, his lip curling back over his teeth though he has yet to actually cross paths with the owner of the noise. The noise brings with it a flood of unbidden annoyance and a ( perhaps stupid ) desire to laugh because this was neutral territory and he’s not about to deal with anyone’s hostile bullshit just because they’re in the same vicinity. Perhaps the owner of the growl intends to seek claim here and even if that’s true there’s no urine markings to indicate such a claim and Drogon’s always had a bit of an authority issue as it was. He does alright in Moonspear but the only leader he really comes into contact a whole lot with ( and even ‘a whole lot’ isn’t all that much ) is Hydra ( or at least he assumes it’s Hydra, it could be one of her sisters for all he knows ). Generally, he sticks to his patrols, or his practice spars or his tracking and tries his best to stay out of Charon and Amekaze’s radar. He respects them enough to not want to be trouble for them, to just pull his weight and remain in the shadows ( which ironic for one that loves attention as much as he does ).
The tundrian’s posture is tense and weary as the ebon sylph emerges into his view, her eyes as frigid as his own. Her growl has died in her throat as the pair of them stare at one another — because Drogon assess her just as she, no doubt, does to him. She sparks no recognition within him. He does not know her, does not know who she used to be, does not know that his mother fought her while she carried him and his siblings. Perhaps they are meant to be blood enemies: a new generation of hatred and spite but the reality of it is: she is just a stranger to Drogon — and even if he hadn’t forced himself to forget where he’s come from and who he really is it’s highly unlikely he’d have known who she was anyway. “Are you seeking to claim this territory?” Drogon asks her straightforward, wanting an explanation for the hostility he still feels emitting from her because there’s no real call for it. He’s just trying to explore and not get sucked into the mud not instigate a fight with her …which is what her posture suggests to him: that she’s ready to lunge or defend herself at any given second.
The tundrian’s posture is tense and weary as the ebon sylph emerges into his view, her eyes as frigid as his own. Her growl has died in her throat as the pair of them stare at one another — because Drogon assess her just as she, no doubt, does to him. She sparks no recognition within him. He does not know her, does not know who she used to be, does not know that his mother fought her while she carried him and his siblings. Perhaps they are meant to be blood enemies: a new generation of hatred and spite but the reality of it is: she is just a stranger to Drogon — and even if he hadn’t forced himself to forget where he’s come from and who he really is it’s highly unlikely he’d have known who she was anyway. “Are you seeking to claim this territory?” Drogon asks her straightforward, wanting an explanation for the hostility he still feels emitting from her because there’s no real call for it. He’s just trying to explore and not get sucked into the mud not instigate a fight with her …which is what her posture suggests to him: that she’s ready to lunge or defend herself at any given second.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - October 31, 2017
Tense, the other reacts in a way that the wraith is most familiar with. There have been very few beings she has encountered in her life who have not raised their hackles or stood cautiously of her, simply at first sight. It does not bother her, rather, it is an expectation for in a way, she sees their fear as an acknowledgment of her, and her as a force not meant to be trifled with. However, when the other speaks, it is not with fear alone, but an accusation, as if she has done something wrong. For this, the woman does not lower her hackles, her body racked with the hostility she first presented. But the mere lack of action on her part suggests that as long as he does nothing against him, she would rather leave the interaction unscathed, as she assumes he would like to part ways intact.
The boy presents a question that begs an answer from her, and the lack of respect in regards to who she is, within his voice, is something she is unaccustomed to. Her very presence alone has always been something that demanded it, and would not take anything less. Perhaps that is the reason she has come so far in her life, for the simple fact that she did not accept disobedience. Those who did not show her the amount she was due were dead to her, if not dead by her own volition. Returning her gaze to the boy before her, glacial optics zero in on his own. "No." The woman retorts, finding the inquiry to be a rather odd one to ask of a stranger, unless one was looking for a home. She suspects that this boy has pledged his allegiance elsewhere due to the scent of a pack she cannot place, however, she very briefly entertains the idea of how well he would fit in the gladiator-esque nature of the merry band of savages Bane had put her at the forefront of. Broad-stanced, brutish, impressively tall for his age and due to grow even further; it was the type of build and austerity they prized their forces on. "Unless you wish to follow me," The woman's brow rises slightly, suggesting the possibility, but in none too a serious fashion. The offer has no true value within the Teekon Wilds, and due to the other's apparent, forward nature she doubts he would be so trusting as to simply follow her north with only the promise of glory.
Instead, the woman sets aside her present, anxious tendency and takes the opportunity where it presents itself. She has since long forgotten the routes and destinations of every pack within the radius of Blackfeather Woods, which, does not help her in the slightest. Leaning forth, she catches a sample of his scent, unable to place the origins of the pack from which he came. "Where do you come from?" It is not one logged into her memory bank like the likes of Teaglaigh, or Easthollow, and so the wraith assumes no mistakes have been made in her past in regards to whom he would report to. Little would the monarch care to know that it had been the stranger's Alpha who cowardly impregnated her sister (whom she then later ordered the beheading of) those fateful moons ago.
The boy presents a question that begs an answer from her, and the lack of respect in regards to who she is, within his voice, is something she is unaccustomed to. Her very presence alone has always been something that demanded it, and would not take anything less. Perhaps that is the reason she has come so far in her life, for the simple fact that she did not accept disobedience. Those who did not show her the amount she was due were dead to her, if not dead by her own volition. Returning her gaze to the boy before her, glacial optics zero in on his own. "No." The woman retorts, finding the inquiry to be a rather odd one to ask of a stranger, unless one was looking for a home. She suspects that this boy has pledged his allegiance elsewhere due to the scent of a pack she cannot place, however, she very briefly entertains the idea of how well he would fit in the gladiator-esque nature of the merry band of savages Bane had put her at the forefront of. Broad-stanced, brutish, impressively tall for his age and due to grow even further; it was the type of build and austerity they prized their forces on. "Unless you wish to follow me," The woman's brow rises slightly, suggesting the possibility, but in none too a serious fashion. The offer has no true value within the Teekon Wilds, and due to the other's apparent, forward nature she doubts he would be so trusting as to simply follow her north with only the promise of glory.
Instead, the woman sets aside her present, anxious tendency and takes the opportunity where it presents itself. She has since long forgotten the routes and destinations of every pack within the radius of Blackfeather Woods, which, does not help her in the slightest. Leaning forth, she catches a sample of his scent, unable to place the origins of the pack from which he came. "Where do you come from?" It is not one logged into her memory bank like the likes of Teaglaigh, or Easthollow, and so the wraith assumes no mistakes have been made in her past in regards to whom he would report to. Little would the monarch care to know that it had been the stranger's Alpha who cowardly impregnated her sister (whom she then later ordered the beheading of) those fateful moons ago.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - November 02, 2017
The dark woman’s hostility appears to return but the tundrian is unperturbed by it especially as she replies that she is not intending to claim the Spine as her own. He’s not afraid of her. There is some part of his brain that cautions him, that little angel among the devil within him that begs and pleads that he be more careful. Drogon’s been ignoring it all of his life, however, and accordingly recognizes that his misfortunes in life are his own doing. He accepts it and their consequences but has no real desire to change the path he walks down. He’s not a coward, she’s not anything to him and neutral territory is neutral territory and he was here first. He can’t prove it of course but either way he’s not leaving and he’s not intending to be responsive to her unwarranted hostility. Maybe, it occurs to him, that it is she that is afraid. Not necessarily of him but it’s the only conclusion he can draw. “If you don't intend to claim this land and I'm not trespassing then there's no need for the hostility.” Obviously he’s not her enemy. Or, rather, he does not have to be. He does not know the history they share through his nightingale mother. He was still of his mother’s womb during that skirmish and there is nothing to tie him to them, to Teaghlaigh. He undoubtedly looks like his mother: very much so, but her pelage isn’t made of uncommon colors. The tundrian could be anyone’s son.
“No,” It is Drogon’s return to reply. He’s got a good thing going with Moonspear: he’s happy there and he sees no reason to abandon it because a woman lets a not-too-serious offer with no information dangle in the air between them. She’s a stranger to him and Drogon has learned early on what happens when one trusts a stranger, especially a lone stranger. When she inquires where he comes from, the tundra’s glacial gaze takes her in, unable to help but think that they have a very similar gaze. A coincidence, he knows, but it still unnerves him a bit for reasons he cannot place. “Ladies first," Drogon offers her a beguiling smile though whether it holds effect or not he cannot say. "If you’re not from around these Wilds I doubt you’d know it.” He doesn’t presently trust her enough to so freely give her Moonspear’s name. Not because he doubts the pack would be unable to defend itself: but because he feels duty bound to protect it in whatever capacity he can. She has his scent now and it would easy for her deduce where he came from if she was ever near enough to the towering spire.
Drogon’s still learning the game of intrigue, crafting and moulding his ability to be a thespian, to be of the shadows and one step ahead of the game as the unsuspected chess-master. He’s got the strategic, pragmatic mind for it: and tactician will tie in well with rogue, glad that his ambitions can feed off and into one another.
“No,” It is Drogon’s return to reply. He’s got a good thing going with Moonspear: he’s happy there and he sees no reason to abandon it because a woman lets a not-too-serious offer with no information dangle in the air between them. She’s a stranger to him and Drogon has learned early on what happens when one trusts a stranger, especially a lone stranger. When she inquires where he comes from, the tundra’s glacial gaze takes her in, unable to help but think that they have a very similar gaze. A coincidence, he knows, but it still unnerves him a bit for reasons he cannot place. “Ladies first," Drogon offers her a beguiling smile though whether it holds effect or not he cannot say. "If you’re not from around these Wilds I doubt you’d know it.” He doesn’t presently trust her enough to so freely give her Moonspear’s name. Not because he doubts the pack would be unable to defend itself: but because he feels duty bound to protect it in whatever capacity he can. She has his scent now and it would easy for her deduce where he came from if she was ever near enough to the towering spire.
Drogon’s still learning the game of intrigue, crafting and moulding his ability to be a thespian, to be of the shadows and one step ahead of the game as the unsuspected chess-master. He’s got the strategic, pragmatic mind for it: and tactician will tie in well with rogue, glad that his ambitions can feed off and into one another.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - November 04, 2017
The other talks with a boldness she would sooner scoff at than praise, for it mimics the attitude of her disgraced daughter who held herself too high, too soon. She sees a similar path in him, one due to come to an abrupt end when the boy would least expect it, for over the years as she has witnessed those similar to him in mannerisms grow, their fates had never been changed. But that is not her problem, and putting him in his place with a warning to tread lightly is not her authority, nor her responsibility. Instead, she brushes off what bloody inclinations scratch at her conscious and returns to his self-knowledgeable statement with a contradictory quirk of a brow, her voice condescendingly grave. "When you have as many wolves who would love to see you dead as I, you may find that hostility is a necessary evil." The wraith looks away at that, glancing about the clearing subtly, though she knows the likelihood of one of those enemies detecting her this easily is quite low. Perhaps there was an upside to being forgotten; her reputation faded away with it, or so, she would rather believe.
The woman does not take offense to his refusal of her offer. There are much more like him among their ranks, perhaps not as promising in youth as she acknowledges within him, but their ranks are equipped with enough tundrian warriors to outlast their rivals for years to come. It is his refusal to answer her inquiry to where he rests his head at night that causes her demeanor to change, endarken, if only slightly. Snarling internally, the baroness teeters the line of patience; he will make her work for it. She wonders if it is foolish to reveal her origins, and perhaps, it is. But the dark woods are no longer her's. They, in their blindsided quest to remove her from the forest, had lost all credibility to their name. They did not represent the darkness that once existed within the woods, the fear that resonated within the bones of all who passed by. They were simply a bunch of pissed of children of the night who liked to pretend they were much, much worse than in actuality, they were. Nemesis had been their last hope, in truth, to carry them on to much higher purpose than the all-defeating one they served. They had lost all that upon her exile, and she harbored no mercy for what would become of them. "I am. Now, I hail from the far north, but before that, a dark wood you should wish you never have the unpleasantries of encountering," In some respect, it irks her that she must play docile -- flirt even, to get at what she needs to know, much like she had in her days of youth. It puts skills to use that she had forgotten she had, for she could not simply demand her way through the Teekon while her cavalry lied moons away.
In this, she knows she reveals too much, putting herself on the line as she speaks more and more of who she is and an insight of who she used to be. Yet, she harbors no regret for who that woman was. The dark woods had made her strong, culled her soul over and over enough times to produce a being so utterly chained to the concept of war that whatever came her way was simply target practice for the next, bigger and badder enemy that attempted to oppose Mephala's sect. How foolish it had been to assume that it would never change, that the exact same dark woods would turn on her one day and eject her from the home she had upkept long before many of its current inhabitants lived there. But in her favor did the outcome surface. She knows the woods inside and out, like a scar on the back of her paw, its secrets and its most abhorrent lies. Yet, what to do with that information was another topic of curious interest, what truths she could sell to its enemies to ensure the brotherhood's extinction: with a price, of course.
The woman does not take offense to his refusal of her offer. There are much more like him among their ranks, perhaps not as promising in youth as she acknowledges within him, but their ranks are equipped with enough tundrian warriors to outlast their rivals for years to come. It is his refusal to answer her inquiry to where he rests his head at night that causes her demeanor to change, endarken, if only slightly. Snarling internally, the baroness teeters the line of patience; he will make her work for it. She wonders if it is foolish to reveal her origins, and perhaps, it is. But the dark woods are no longer her's. They, in their blindsided quest to remove her from the forest, had lost all credibility to their name. They did not represent the darkness that once existed within the woods, the fear that resonated within the bones of all who passed by. They were simply a bunch of pissed of children of the night who liked to pretend they were much, much worse than in actuality, they were. Nemesis had been their last hope, in truth, to carry them on to much higher purpose than the all-defeating one they served. They had lost all that upon her exile, and she harbored no mercy for what would become of them. "I am. Now, I hail from the far north, but before that, a dark wood you should wish you never have the unpleasantries of encountering," In some respect, it irks her that she must play docile -- flirt even, to get at what she needs to know, much like she had in her days of youth. It puts skills to use that she had forgotten she had, for she could not simply demand her way through the Teekon while her cavalry lied moons away.
In this, she knows she reveals too much, putting herself on the line as she speaks more and more of who she is and an insight of who she used to be. Yet, she harbors no regret for who that woman was. The dark woods had made her strong, culled her soul over and over enough times to produce a being so utterly chained to the concept of war that whatever came her way was simply target practice for the next, bigger and badder enemy that attempted to oppose Mephala's sect. How foolish it had been to assume that it would never change, that the exact same dark woods would turn on her one day and eject her from the home she had upkept long before many of its current inhabitants lived there. But in her favor did the outcome surface. She knows the woods inside and out, like a scar on the back of her paw, its secrets and its most abhorrent lies. Yet, what to do with that information was another topic of curious interest, what truths she could sell to its enemies to ensure the brotherhood's extinction: with a price, of course.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - November 08, 2017
Then perhaps you should not make yourself an enemy to so many, Drogon desires to speak but bites upon his tongue to keep the words from spilling out if only because the tundrian does not want to start a tiresome war of words with her. But truly, he wonders, what kind of life must she lead to have to watch over her back all the time for the fear that one of her enemies may find her and try to take her out. It seemed awfully tiresome to Drogon. The soturi’s ears cup forth atop his skull with piqued interest as she speaks of the far north — so she and he are not so different after all ( and because he’s not overly sure how he feels about that he doesn’t dare examine it too closely )… — but also reveals ‘the dark woods’. The Ansbjørn almost laughs. He almost laughs because the wolves of Blackfeather Woods all vaguely refer to it as ‘The Dark Woods’ to help keep it secret but that, in and of itself, reveals it. Especially to ones in on the know and Drogon happens to be one of them. “I know all about Blackfeather Woods,” He comments to her, a wicked smirk tugging upon the edges of his lips, his glacial gaze razor sharp as he assess her once more wondering if they were about to be enemies or …frenemies. “I was one of them too, once upon a time.”
“One of it’s inhabitants, a son of Potema with platinum fur and sand colored markings is recklessly making his mark on these Wilds. He has no subtly and now he is hunted. There are several wolves that want him dead for his attempted murder.” ( At this moment Drogon doesn’t realize that there’s two whole packs added for a captive he’d taken ). It had been sloppy. Sloppy and a giant broadcast sign that led everything, in the end, back to him and Blackfeather Woods. The boy and him had been destined enemies since the day they met and their individual superiority complexes clashed. He is all the more apprehensive about telling her where he lives since he has just told her that he was once apart of Blackfeather Woods …weary as to if she will turn on them. Perhaps, it occurs to him, this is all just an elaborate trap. The tactician within him paints it as a strong possibility because it’s something he would do. Yet, depending on how connected she’d been within the Woods she could be useful to Charon and The Cerberus ( and Drogon still strives to impress Hydra ). “I got out and I spent a lot of time on my own until I was recruited by The Cerberus from Moonspear. It was one of their wolves he attacked for no apparent reason other than because the option was there.” Drogon tells her, fixing her in a piercing stare. His trust is apprehensive, offered only because he believes she could be of great value to him and Moonspear.
And if she proves to be a betrayer than he will add her to his list of ‘most wanted’.
“One of it’s inhabitants, a son of Potema with platinum fur and sand colored markings is recklessly making his mark on these Wilds. He has no subtly and now he is hunted. There are several wolves that want him dead for his attempted murder.” ( At this moment Drogon doesn’t realize that there’s two whole packs added for a captive he’d taken ). It had been sloppy. Sloppy and a giant broadcast sign that led everything, in the end, back to him and Blackfeather Woods. The boy and him had been destined enemies since the day they met and their individual superiority complexes clashed. He is all the more apprehensive about telling her where he lives since he has just told her that he was once apart of Blackfeather Woods …weary as to if she will turn on them. Perhaps, it occurs to him, this is all just an elaborate trap. The tactician within him paints it as a strong possibility because it’s something he would do. Yet, depending on how connected she’d been within the Woods she could be useful to Charon and The Cerberus ( and Drogon still strives to impress Hydra ). “I got out and I spent a lot of time on my own until I was recruited by The Cerberus from Moonspear. It was one of their wolves he attacked for no apparent reason other than because the option was there.” Drogon tells her, fixing her in a piercing stare. His trust is apprehensive, offered only because he believes she could be of great value to him and Moonspear.
And if she proves to be a betrayer than he will add her to his list of ‘most wanted’.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - November 08, 2017
It comes as a light surprise to her when the boy reveals he had previously lived within the dark woods, though surely not within her time of reign. She would have remembered him. However, as he goes on the nature of his residence within the dark woods becomes apparent to her, and the wraith doubts internally that he was ever truly one of the dark woods, or knows as much as he thinks he does about them. She glances to his shoulder. He did not bear the red mark, nor did the stain of it haunt his pelt. The way he talks of the woods does not hold the same meaning within his tone as it does in her's for she, bearing witness to its very essence of totalitarian destruction, knew better than to shrug them off as irrelevant to the forces of the outside world, despite how far they may have fallen following her departure. The woman does not care for them, but she does not underestimate them. If he escaped the woods as he suggests and still stood standing before her, it proved very little of the other's ability to free himself but rather, the dark wood's lack of interest in hunting him down. She herself had led many manhunts for those who mattered, who were important enough to the secrecy of Blackfeather as an entirety to make sure they never escaped, to never live on in betrayal of the Brotherhood as a whole. But she does not bother to correct his beliefs as she sees them, he is too young to fully grasp the severity of creating an enemy out of the dark woods, and perhaps did not know at the time what he had done in betraying them.
Instead, he seemingly disregards their capabilities in the way he speaks of them, something rather foolhardy if one was truly familiar with the caution one was to hold when turning their back on the Blackfeather. Even the monarch as of now would not be so haughty as to believe she was free from them, for once entrapped by the woods, one was never truly free from its memory. "And what did the woods do to you to earn your ire?" She is curious about where his individual hatred of the dark woods stems from, to fully understand exactly what she was getting into by conversing with someone who was pitted against the woods and the people she had very little interest in revisiting.
Abruptly, the wraith lets out a hollow cackle at the boy's revelation of exactly of whom caused Blackfeather's strife, unsurprised at the discovery. "That is not surprising to hear. Potema's young have been trouble to me since their birth, and now to you. How unfortunate." There is a bitter, through-the-teeth grit in her tone and she tenses, recalling the times she had condemned their conception, their birth, and their continued existence. It was simply ironic that it would be a son of Potema's, a child who was never meant to be born and whom she had longed to end so long ago, would be the destruction of them as a whole. Perhaps she would stick around only to witness their downfall, collect what was her's, and return to where other's allegiance to her was true and strong. But the matter of roaming the Teekon unguarded during what appeared to be a conflict of life and death was a risk the woman feels is all too great, and the thought passes through her mind of trading years worth of information on the dark woods, Blackfeather, and the Dark Brotherhood in exchange for a place within the ranks that opposed her former home, where she could do about her business with the safety net of those behind her.
Instead, he seemingly disregards their capabilities in the way he speaks of them, something rather foolhardy if one was truly familiar with the caution one was to hold when turning their back on the Blackfeather. Even the monarch as of now would not be so haughty as to believe she was free from them, for once entrapped by the woods, one was never truly free from its memory. "And what did the woods do to you to earn your ire?" She is curious about where his individual hatred of the dark woods stems from, to fully understand exactly what she was getting into by conversing with someone who was pitted against the woods and the people she had very little interest in revisiting.
Abruptly, the wraith lets out a hollow cackle at the boy's revelation of exactly of whom caused Blackfeather's strife, unsurprised at the discovery. "That is not surprising to hear. Potema's young have been trouble to me since their birth, and now to you. How unfortunate." There is a bitter, through-the-teeth grit in her tone and she tenses, recalling the times she had condemned their conception, their birth, and their continued existence. It was simply ironic that it would be a son of Potema's, a child who was never meant to be born and whom she had longed to end so long ago, would be the destruction of them as a whole. Perhaps she would stick around only to witness their downfall, collect what was her's, and return to where other's allegiance to her was true and strong. But the matter of roaming the Teekon unguarded during what appeared to be a conflict of life and death was a risk the woman feels is all too great, and the thought passes through her mind of trading years worth of information on the dark woods, Blackfeather, and the Dark Brotherhood in exchange for a place within the ranks that opposed her former home, where she could do about her business with the safety net of those behind her.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - November 09, 2017
Perhaps he is underestimating them: he’s seen them at their weakest, on the verge of extinction where pups nearly outnumbered the adults; but they made a grave mistake in thinking he was unworthy of a manhunt. Or perhaps they had hunted for him: he was smart enough not to linger in one place, to mask his scent. It doesn’t matter now: they would not be able to recognize him. He looks physically nothing like the small, frightened cream puff Nyx had taken in. He does not look like Kahlil anymore and for that he’s grateful. She asks what the Woods had done to earn his ire, assuming that his bone to pick is with the whole and not with the individual. The truth was: he had nothing against the Woods itself. He didn’t agree with their coveted secrets and false deities — but he’s always been confrontational — and he didn’t agree with the fact that they deign themselves the choosers of who lives and dies when usefulness runs out. Like a wolf’s worth has a limit. Secrets and lies. Drogon wants to think that he has no time for either but he remembers what he offered Hydra: that he would go in undercover if she wanted him to ( playing off the fact that he is physically unrecognizable from the small, creamy white child he’d been when they’d known him ); and all she had to do was give him the word. Does that make me like them? Perhaps he is more than he would care to admit and thus does not inspect it too closely for fear of drawing parallels he is happy to turn a blind eye to.
“It’s not the Woods I care about. It’s the boy. In my birth pack if you make a threat you better be ready to deliver upon it. I detest hollow threats. In my mind, he sought to make an enemy out of me and so an enemy he has made. I was contented to leave him be when I left that place but he’s made an act of war with my pack by attacking without cause and I’ve no qualms about joining in on the coming war.” He was bred for it, for war. In fact, Drogon was looking forward to it: because he wanted to be the victor. He wanted it so bad he could taste it ( even after all this time he still strives, endlessly, with little to no boundaries ) to prove himself the superior clearly there’s too much testosterone raging about in his growing body. To give that smug bastard the biggest fuck you of all time. Drogon doesn’t know that would he not have wandered off that fateful day he might have found himself in this place anyway though desiring to wage war in vengeance of everything his parents had suffered for the mistake of two that had unwittingly dragged the Fearghals and Teaghlaigh into their scuffle with the Blackfeather wolves.
She cackles at his revelation of the cause of all these problems. Evidently, they shared a similar problem. “It’s just him they want. To answer for his crime. It’s just him I want. We could help each other.” Drogon can’t say he really trusts her: but she could be invaluable and he isn’t about to pass up the chance to strike a bargain with her if it means it will win them the boy’s head severed from his body.
“It’s not the Woods I care about. It’s the boy. In my birth pack if you make a threat you better be ready to deliver upon it. I detest hollow threats. In my mind, he sought to make an enemy out of me and so an enemy he has made. I was contented to leave him be when I left that place but he’s made an act of war with my pack by attacking without cause and I’ve no qualms about joining in on the coming war.” He was bred for it, for war. In fact, Drogon was looking forward to it: because he wanted to be the victor. He wanted it so bad he could taste it ( even after all this time he still strives, endlessly, with little to no boundaries ) to prove himself the superior clearly there’s too much testosterone raging about in his growing body. To give that smug bastard the biggest fuck you of all time. Drogon doesn’t know that would he not have wandered off that fateful day he might have found himself in this place anyway though desiring to wage war in vengeance of everything his parents had suffered for the mistake of two that had unwittingly dragged the Fearghals and Teaghlaigh into their scuffle with the Blackfeather wolves.
She cackles at his revelation of the cause of all these problems. Evidently, they shared a similar problem. “It’s just him they want. To answer for his crime. It’s just him I want. We could help each other.” Drogon can’t say he really trusts her: but she could be invaluable and he isn’t about to pass up the chance to strike a bargain with her if it means it will win them the boy’s head severed from his body.
577 words
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - November 17, 2017
very very very sorry about the wait!! this... took a little while lol
He recounts his interaction with Potema's bastard in full effect, the tale of a vendetta that did not show as much promise of a war as she expected. Threats were threats and insults hurt just as bad to the male ego, however, that made no cause for fully fledged warfare. There was more he did not speak of, details to the story of why and how Blackfeather had got himself into such a sticky little situation that he was unwilling to share, and perhaps, things that she would not get out of him so easily. She does not press further, rather nodding ever so often in contemplation of his words.
That is, until he shares with her what he most desires from the more curious situation. Her attention snaps back to the boy, optics narrowing a fraction and within them holds a fire as if the flames of hell erupted beneath her eyes. Her voice louder, much more intense than before, for it was a critical error in judgement that one could not afford to miss. "If you're going to end one, you better kill the rest," She knows that the Brotherhood within Blackfeather Woods is only a fraction of many, a piece in a Web of great design. "They are like hydra's heads. Cut one down and two respawn in it's place." The dethroned monarch of the woods recalls so with a low growl, as she had practically invented the practice of procreating to increase their numbers. But it wasn't just that. They were not the biggest sect of the Brotherhood to exist, and to kill the grandson of Meldresi... it was an act of war in itself, to call upon not only what remained of the Blackfeather's but also their cousins and uncles and relatives of all nature. It was a threat, either way, to mark war with the Night's children. There were disadvantages even to the advantages, she would know. To put it into perspective, not even she would be daring enough to kill Potema's son, the nephew of perhaps her greatest and most promising enemy, even on the grounds of war. Not if she had no plans to get rid of the rest of them.
However, her tone softens a fraction, not wishing to cause strife between them with her ominous warnings that depicted a timely end to his superior's ideology of what Blackfeather was: a lowly band of evil-doers that could be shooed away simply by brute force and threats. No, Blackfeather was a disease that could not simply be rid of by throwing around a distaste for their existence, and they could not be halted by cutting off one arm of their many limbs. But that was not her job. What they did with Blackfeather Woods did not concern her as of that very moment, and what he chose to do with her information was entirely up to him -- but she had no part in their protection or their victory, at least, not yet... if she ever would.
"We could," She nods in agreement to his remark, that they could indeed be mutually beneficial to each other. "And am inclined to accept, however I presume that whether or not I am accepted into your pack is not entirely up to you," He did not reek of that power, in the sense that she could tell he did not hold a standing within the ranks that gave him the authority to make such decisions. She figures due to his maturity and not to his intelligence, that he did not hold that special sense that seasoned commanders would feel flare as the wraith would enter the scene, that sense of warning and discomfort. It was the unconscious mind that told even the most hot-headed leaders that she was not to be trusted, someone to be wary of, and she doubts that his superiors would take so quickly to accepting her as he does. Nonetheless, she err's on the side of caution, first, feeling out how presenting herself before the boy's Alpha's may go before she jumps at the offer she has been waiting to hear since he first spoke of the dark woods and how he longs to end the boy Vaati in the same way she hungers to end the dark woods as a whole.
That is, until he shares with her what he most desires from the more curious situation. Her attention snaps back to the boy, optics narrowing a fraction and within them holds a fire as if the flames of hell erupted beneath her eyes. Her voice louder, much more intense than before, for it was a critical error in judgement that one could not afford to miss. "If you're going to end one, you better kill the rest," She knows that the Brotherhood within Blackfeather Woods is only a fraction of many, a piece in a Web of great design. "They are like hydra's heads. Cut one down and two respawn in it's place." The dethroned monarch of the woods recalls so with a low growl, as she had practically invented the practice of procreating to increase their numbers. But it wasn't just that. They were not the biggest sect of the Brotherhood to exist, and to kill the grandson of Meldresi... it was an act of war in itself, to call upon not only what remained of the Blackfeather's but also their cousins and uncles and relatives of all nature. It was a threat, either way, to mark war with the Night's children. There were disadvantages even to the advantages, she would know. To put it into perspective, not even she would be daring enough to kill Potema's son, the nephew of perhaps her greatest and most promising enemy, even on the grounds of war. Not if she had no plans to get rid of the rest of them.
However, her tone softens a fraction, not wishing to cause strife between them with her ominous warnings that depicted a timely end to his superior's ideology of what Blackfeather was: a lowly band of evil-doers that could be shooed away simply by brute force and threats. No, Blackfeather was a disease that could not simply be rid of by throwing around a distaste for their existence, and they could not be halted by cutting off one arm of their many limbs. But that was not her job. What they did with Blackfeather Woods did not concern her as of that very moment, and what he chose to do with her information was entirely up to him -- but she had no part in their protection or their victory, at least, not yet... if she ever would.
"We could," She nods in agreement to his remark, that they could indeed be mutually beneficial to each other. "And am inclined to accept, however I presume that whether or not I am accepted into your pack is not entirely up to you," He did not reek of that power, in the sense that she could tell he did not hold a standing within the ranks that gave him the authority to make such decisions. She figures due to his maturity and not to his intelligence, that he did not hold that special sense that seasoned commanders would feel flare as the wraith would enter the scene, that sense of warning and discomfort. It was the unconscious mind that told even the most hot-headed leaders that she was not to be trusted, someone to be wary of, and she doubts that his superiors would take so quickly to accepting her as he does. Nonetheless, she err's on the side of caution, first, feeling out how presenting herself before the boy's Alpha's may go before she jumps at the offer she has been waiting to hear since he first spoke of the dark woods and how he longs to end the boy Vaati in the same way she hungers to end the dark woods as a whole.
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - RIP Wintersbane - November 20, 2017
Drogon resists the snort that threatens to rise at the irony of her words, speaking about a hydra — evidently Hydra is named for a monster that can respawn heads; that was a thing he knows now. He resists the snort only because he believes her. It’s not that he doesn’t but if what she’s implying is true he doubts that it’ll happen here. There is only one branch of the dark woods in these Wilds and there is no way for any of the other branches to know about it. Not to mention, the time it would take the war would already be over. He does not say these things to her though. Instead, he offers her a terse expression that is meant to suffice as acknowledgement. As far as the Ansbjørn is aware eradicating an entire pack was not on their agenda but he does not think it will be an issue if push comes to shove. It’s something to bring up to Charon and Amekaze, at least ( though part of him doubts they’ll listen to him due to his youth and newness to the Spear ).
She concurs that they could help each other; and makes the connection that he’s not in a place to offer her sanctuary. She’s right. He’s not. If she could pass The Cerberus’ screening and appease them and then appease Charon and Amekaze then perhaps she could find sanctuary among them. Drogon knows the value of her information, especially as it appears to be rather intimate knowledge. Strategically: could they afford to forego the insight she could offer them? Know thy enemy. In order to know them: they had to think like them. This was easy enough for Drogon whose manipulative nature and ease in which his tongue spilled lies to slip into a rogue mindset. His nightingale mother was skilled at the craft too ( and he will always be more of Lotte’s son than Arturo’s ). “I will take you to The Cerberus. If you can appease them then you stand a fairly descent chance of joining our ranks.” Drogon trusts Hydra’s judgement and beyond that: he is her protégé ( and he’s still striving to impress her ) it only makes sense that he would defer to her judgement before he goes to Charon and Amekaze.
“If you do not pass their judgement they will kill you.” She is already worried about the bounty on her head, as she’s willingly stated to him. Drogon warns her, giving her the chance to think about it, to back out now before they proceed and she puts her head on the chopping block to either potentially live or potentially die by the end of The Cerberus' interrogation.
She concurs that they could help each other; and makes the connection that he’s not in a place to offer her sanctuary. She’s right. He’s not. If she could pass The Cerberus’ screening and appease them and then appease Charon and Amekaze then perhaps she could find sanctuary among them. Drogon knows the value of her information, especially as it appears to be rather intimate knowledge. Strategically: could they afford to forego the insight she could offer them? Know thy enemy. In order to know them: they had to think like them. This was easy enough for Drogon whose manipulative nature and ease in which his tongue spilled lies to slip into a rogue mindset. His nightingale mother was skilled at the craft too ( and he will always be more of Lotte’s son than Arturo’s ). “I will take you to The Cerberus. If you can appease them then you stand a fairly descent chance of joining our ranks.” Drogon trusts Hydra’s judgement and beyond that: he is her protégé ( and he’s still striving to impress her ) it only makes sense that he would defer to her judgement before he goes to Charon and Amekaze.
“If you do not pass their judgement they will kill you.” She is already worried about the bounty on her head, as she’s willingly stated to him. Drogon warns her, giving her the chance to think about it, to back out now before they proceed and she puts her head on the chopping block to either potentially live or potentially die by the end of The Cerberus' interrogation.
456 words
RE: even atlas cannot stand forever - Nemesis - December 10, 2017
He speaks to her of consequence should she fail to impress his superiors. The baroness gives a lofty shrug, as if to say "what's new?". There were many who wanted her dead and gone, but never had succeeded. She feared nothing of the Cerberus, a diety she knew nothing of. In truth, that was a relation tainted in illicit pregnancies and assassinations, but the likelihood of either faction realizing the nature of their histories was slim to none. Her sister's death and the unknown fate of her bastard children who carried the blood of a Moonspear alpha meant nothing to her, and even upon the realization, neither would she let that stand in her way. She is a woman long since scorned, betrayed by those she called her own and cast out by those who could not get over themselves to appreciate all she offered. Nemesis holds no sympathy for the fate of Blackfeather Woods, and would sooner see them burn for their sins than let their gremlins see another day. Indicating that she would follow as he led her towards uncertainty, she leaves behind the title of mother, wife, leader, villain and looks toward a new moniker, retribution.