the high priestess

I'm that bad type, Make your mama sad type, Make your girlfriend mad tight, Might seduce your dad type - I'm the bad guy, duh

Esmerée feels the rattling breeze rake through her soft, pink fur, the scent of many, now infiltrating her nostrils. Her luxurious fur bristles against the eerie winds, the breeze raking against the lithe sides of her flesh; a cool and transient caress, one she welcomes with the idle bemusement of a sensual feline. Idly, she waits along the sidelines, consumed by the fight of her now-lover, and the building chaos as the violence further ensues, escalating - a rage boiled over to a frantic desperation;

Bloodshed fills the air, the tang of it sharp and metallic; and she almost purrs at the vicarious taste of blood, as it touches her lips like a demented ghost. Her slender physique, elegantly-carved, lounges against the rocks like thicker pillows; her hour-glass sensuality, draped brazenly against the rough boulder in all her silken entice. She would watch, and wait, an eagerness flashing within her violet eyes, before the brawny form of @Gauthier catches her eye. She watches him move, the flash of male muscle thick beneath his swarthy fur, his attractive face draped in ruinous shadow;

He flashes her a devilish wink, and suddenly her cheekbones become flush with color, the mountain of (secret) desire, building; a rosy hue, dappling against her pale cheek, their warmth budding along her breastline all the way down to her delicate toes. She remembers their heated encounter by the ocean, the way he roused her desires, ignited her heart, only to push her into the ocean. She can still taste that same ocean salt in her mouth, and her laughter is bubbling, now, threatening to spill, her mirth, bittersweet. Should she approach him? Hungry for chaos herself, she slinks from her perch and stalks elegantly towards the feral heathen.

Esmerée's eyes will sweep over the forms of @Amaroq and @Aidoneus, greeting them both with a friendly, polite smile, but when her eyes land on Gauthier, she cannot help but frown a little. It is a mocking jest, a playful lure, as she slides up to his side and drops a heated, accusing whisper against his ear: "I'm still waiting for that apology."

By the time Mordecai stumbles upon the brawl, it seemed well underway already - there were two fights, but the majority of attention seemed fixed upon the two men, one pale and the other dark but both substantially covered in wounds and blood. Intrigued, he would scan the crowd, attention settling finally on @Mugo. An unattended figure, just like him. The older male drew up alongside him, keeping a few feet away in case the stranger was hostile. "Do you know what they fight for?" Attention then shifted to the other battle, on the sidelines - a grey woman and a brown-pelted man. "Either of them?" Gaze shifted back to the Hodari, then, quietly curious.

He continued his swift jog across the landscape, eyes fixated on the crowds ahead and the challenges they surrounded. It seemed that there were two fights underway, one beginning to settle down and another far more vicious in nature. Sahir approached the outskirts, furrowing his brows with discernment and shaking with panted breaths. The prophecy echoed back in his mind as he watched them, and he had to wonder if it was being immediately fulfilled or if this was merely a coincidence.

Blasphemy.

Sahir snapped up straight as the scornful word hissed at him from within his own mind. Whatever occurred here, he was determined to harbor a greater understanding of what the universe was trying to tell him. Who were these lions, and what had they done?

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+10 - Observe a fight (for OH)
+10 - Exercise to gain strength
+10 - Observe a fight (Saga/Eul)

_{BG — ART — CODE}

"Be ready," her father warned her. Hrefna watched with narrowed eyes as one fight seemed to simmer to an end, allowing her to focus better on the struggle for her aunt's life. She craned her neck to look at Morrigan approaching her father, followed by Lysander on her unseeing side. She jolted slightly, tempted to lash out at him before realizing his identity by the warmth at her side. He exchanged words with Magnus, who warned them both that others would surely follow soon and a chill ran its way up her spine at the thought.

"Don't do anything stupid," she urged her betrothed in a hushed whisper as her father leaned in for his own private conversation. Tension was thick in the air with the challenge against his uncle and her own aunt's fight for the death, but impulse was just as great an enemy. Her words were anything but sweet, and yet there was an implication to them: the implication that she cared.

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@Lysander_{BG — ART — CODE}

it was one thing to have the throne of obsidian hollow be challenged for -- but oh vellen, if only they all knew that this was going to be so, so much more than that. dark eyes watched carefully as other bodies filtered in, including not only her family, but the undeniable figures of the rike. the mere sight nearly sent voluspa over the edge, fur standing up into jagged edges as her lips curls, threatening to let loose a snarl as her vision pounded red at the edges. but there was no time to react because, before she could even blink, saga herself was there, barring teeth and claws that sung for vengeance and penance for their crimes. the summons for death was clear as day, and, just as quickly as her blood had boiled, it now ran ice cold.

@Hillevi is there the next moment, and it was then that voluspa realized the gravity of what could become of these next few moments. and so it was instinctively that she looked to raise a forelimb, aiming to plant it firmly on the other side of her cousin so that she would stand protectively over her. "no matter what happens, you need to listen to me, hillevi. do not move from here until i tell you to." she whispered down towards the trembling shape of the sigrun, a twinge of softness there, though the rigidity of her instructions left little room for misinterpretation. if the sigrun and rike were going to spill blood today, voluspa had no doubt that more of them lingered within the shadows, or would soon enough.

even as she saw her father, and morrigan, and hrefna, and others arrive amongst the growing tendrils of the crowd, voluspa was incapable of focusing on anyone other than hillevi now, her stomach lurching as she did her best to maintain a strong façade, and do what she had promised to. the valkyrie's only hope now was that both roan and saga would find victory, at least today -- vellen, give us strength today.


voluspa is hidden with hillevi

art by cala + coded by flea + background credit

she was late, so, so late -- the angry summoning of a challenge had frightened her at first, prompting a cold vision of what had transpired in the brook and causing her to think that the same fate would now befall the hollows. but it was after shaking her fear and uncertainty that rhaella looked to quickly make the journey to the cavernous pride, knowing that those she cared for found homage there, and that they might need, just like her family had needed them in their darkest days.

by the time that she arrived, chaos had completely unraveled, with multiple fights occupying the breadth of the pride lands and causing her heart rate to increase tenfold. why were the sigruns fighting, and to the death no less? and who the man trying to take the throne from roan? it was all too much for the nymph process initially, and so it was fervently that her eyes began to dart around, searching for something, someone, familiar amongst the mess of blurry faces and hulking shapes thankfully, it did not take her too long to find exactly what it was that she had been looking for. "@Kallan!" she cried out first, ears pricking forward, until her eyes shifted to an undeniably familiar shape nestled against the hodari's flank. "@Juliette?" this one was more of a gasp, rhaella feeling as though she were trapped in a haze as she began weaving through the crowd anew, warm tears stinging her eyes as she wove her way forwards in an urgent, desperate fashion.

table by ferus

The call's intention is unknown, unfamiliar -- but it sparks something in the bear's chest regardless. Heavy paws carry him easily through even these remote, strange lands -- until the sky disappears and there is only stone. Obsidian Hollows, ruled by Roan -- this must be the place. And indeed, there is Roan fighting another. A large gathering has pulled lions in from every inch of the island and the Rurik is glad to be one of them, folded ears pressing forward with quiet delight. A spectacle was a spectacle was a spectacle; oblivious to the complicated inner workings, he is merely enthralled with the violence. A delightful show to indulge in, to enjoy solid solid ground beneath his feet.

Morbid curiosity pulls him forward.

He still does not understand why anyone would want to live here -- does not understand why anyone would want it, or fight so hard to keep it. Yet another pride challenge has been called for this hole in the ground, and he is curious to see just who would want it. Of course he does not recognize either challenger; by the time he arrives, it looks like they've been at it for awhile. Late, then. His tardiness sure to be blamed on the sickness that still sticks to his lungs -- less severe but no less stubborn.

That same tardiness, though, means he does not see saga jump into the fray -- he only sees her enthralled.

At first he thinks she is the one fighting for the hollows ( and the other fight is unrelated ), but there is a severity written into her blurring features that speaks volume. And his heart -- clenches. Squeezes tight in his chest, causing his steps to falter for only a moment. Gaming attention is stolen only by @Calypso, her familiar form Among the crowd; without thinking he moves to her side, finding a strange sort of comfort with her presence. Grounding even against the chaos.

He says nothing as he settles at her side, only offering her a a small little chuff -- tone strangely uneven. He has a sinking feeling he knows who the man might be, and his suspicions are certainly confirmed by the fact that saga goes for his throat. This is the fight he watches, not the one for the hollows -- features set and tense, oblivious and unaware of the familiar ocean eyes watching him.

CODE BY LARS

The call was not for her, yet still she comes.

Unaware that she is trespassing, unaware that she is merely gawking upon the latest drama. The Oracle settles into the crowd with little fanfare, becoming simply one among many, even as ocean eyes remain fixed and intent. Two fights happen at once here, the space hardly big enough for one. The cause and effect of either of them matter little to her -- she does not seek context because she will not get it. Instead, she uses this as a way to seek, to learn, to investigate. To learn.

And -- hmm.

She does recognize someone here. Her gaze flits, settling heavily on one before glancing to the other. Two someones, actually. Her son, sitting on his haunches; the sigrun woman, fighting for the death of another. Hmmm. A curious expression wrinkles her features, intent, even as she keeps her seat. Watching him instead of the fight.

Coming back here seemed.... hard. Impossible. Yet, here she is.

The chaos is controlled though, nothing like the onslaught she'd suffered. The din of voices sounded nothing like snarls and she presses forward, sneaking closer into the crowd. Eyes are wide and mismatched as she peeks forward, attention flitting like a hummingbird between the fights, plural, and the crowd itself. Still she searches for any familiar ones ( the ones who had hurt here ) but there is nothing. Strange faces have never been much of a comfort though and so she settles, attention still split. Clearly having half a mind to leave, to run back to Mord -- and wanting to stay here within the hollows, to prove to herself she was strong enough to stomach it again.

One part of her is winning, but she cannot tell which.

She does not have to worry about that for long, though, because soon enough her worried gaze finally catches on something familiar. Mordecai stands, a beacon against the darkness; a life vest thrown to a drowning woman. Petite paws immediately move -- pushing her to Mords side, oblivious of any she might bump into during the process. Like velcro she zips to his free side, oblivious to the fact that he is in the middle of a conversation until she's already inserted herself. A quiet noise pulls from her throat, apologetic and sheepish, shifting backwards a step until her nose is aligned with his shoulder -- not wanting interrupt but still taking comfort.

CODE BY LARS; ART BY TANZANI