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+--- Thread: Ravensblood Forest chooses combat gear (/showthread.php?tid=33508)
chooses combat gear - Kory - March 28, 2019
Night had settled alike a blanket covering a quieted babe — a tranquil, slumberous kind of calm that silenced giants and sheathed even the vulturous of tooth. That didn’t [fucking] apply to him, however — he wasn’t in some sedative, comfortable cocoon [of smoking hot babes], he was in some macabre amalgamation of forestry whose dense limbs might as well have been the sticky, entangling threads of a famished arachnid. Being a foreigner, he was not accustomed to the topography, and had naturally gotten [a little] misplaced in his admittedly carefree wanderings. Had he known the horrible fable attached to this hellish imprisonment of limbs and roots he’d have surely fainted — [un]luckily for him, being a foreigner also had its perks. Light was purged from this place almost as though it were looming in a different plain of existence, the moons futile rays easily bounced from the impenetrable canopy. The only thing which remained constant was the disconcerting whirr of insects — recently woken from wintry suspension — and the subtle coos of a distant owl as it perched above the ground, gaze combing the ground for unsuspecting vermin. His footsteps seemed to be swallowed by the ambiance — and so was his sense of direction. Everything looked the same, nothing seemed promising: this was it, this was how the king of fools met his end. Demon forest.
... actually that sounded kind of rad.
RE: chooses combat gear - Bug - March 28, 2019
when she had first arrived in the forest of darkness it was out of curiosity, the sun was falling from the sky and there were tiny pinpricks of light at the entrance.she had thought maybe this s where she had spent the night before but was quickly learning that she was well and truly lost, again. a whine began to build in her throat as she aimlessly wandered in the darkness, her only clue to the face that it was indeed night was the sound of bugs. their movements slow due to the barely spring-like weather. the usually smiling, cheerful child was reduced to a scared mess. tall ears pinned against her skull, her tail began to tuck between her silver thighs. she gave a soft yelp when the hoot of an owl broke the insect song and night silence, her whines escaping at every rustling sound. how was she going to get out of here? should she find a little alcove, should she find a place to hide? would the sun penetrate the canopy of darkness once it arose from its slumber or would it too be blocked out?
just as she was about to give up, her vision spotted a dim creature. fear spiked through her as she looked at the ghostly figure, she did not know that the black patches missing from him were actually splotches on his coat. was he a ghost? were ghosts real? her head tilted slightly as she began to approach them with shaking legs, another whine escaping her lips before she asked the question. "are.. are you a ghost?" her words came out tight and scared, do you speak to ghosts? do ghosts talk, wait, what if this wasa demon? oh no, she could be talking to a demon!
RE: chooses combat gear - Kory - April 01, 2019
He had paused, looking around to try and tether any sense of right from wrong — all endeavors easily thwarted. He couldn’t grasp any notion of direction, let alone even begin to think with all of the surrounding, deafening notes. From the chortles of insects, to the warbles of predatory nightsong, his head was so full of noise he was about to go absolutely bonkers!
— but then, suddenly, as though the flick of a switch, it stopped. He was about to sigh in relief, had his ears not began to note those vividly distinct, and totally ominous footsteps approaching him from the void. His voice swallowed down his throat along with his breath—he was silent, he was invisible, he really needed some brown pants to hide all of the [shit] that was about to escape him. Oh fuck—oh raptor jesus—oh heavenly bitchin’ Christ—
— but then, instead of some monstrous voice echoing from the pitch, the sound equivocal to a dove bloomed, like some kind of holy flower surviving the snuff of pestilence. He felt all of the air, once trapped solidly in his lungs, escape all at once into a bellow of snorting laughter. “Cool it, little bird, calm,” he chuckled, approaching her so that she could better distinguish him from the dark. “I’m no ghost, but like, that’d be suuuper sick if I was. Goin’ around bein’ all like ‘boo!’,” he lunged forward a little, playfully, “to people. Hah,” another snort of laughter, “it’d be a cool time.” He looked down upon her with soft eyes and a big grin, “you like, lost too little bird?” At least he wouldn’t be [as] scared now with her company.