it would be easier to stay away. far away. for alaric knew the call that rang across the lands; the voice was so familiar it might have been his own.

he knew, too, the family that sat upon the throne he had held for so long; knew the crown of thorns had wound around the head of an enemy. an enemy and yet -- yet! -- how the lines had blurred.

a son that wore the name of rike, ripping out the throat of his father. another that had not yet abandoned the title of starke, snatching the seat only to lose it so quickly. anger burned in his heart and alaric did not know what to do with it, did not know where to direct it, and so his steps are slow.

but he is no coward and so he steps in to his once-home and looks upon the mess that he has created. the chaos that rises from a feud he had carried his family in to. a feud that saw his wife dead and now -- his breath catches in his throat when he sees bruno and morrigan locked together -- might it see another?

he moves close enough to hear her words and knows -- deeply and intensely -- that she is right. "Ihre Fehde ist nicht unsere, Bruno," her feud is not ours, bruno his voice is loud and meant to reach him, even now, even in the midst of bloodshed. a grasp at some mad desire to extract his family from old feuds so that they might forge their own path forward.

he was certain erna would roll over in her grave to hear it.

coding and art by dusk

everything was broken.
frayed, damaged, ruined.

by her own paw? her own inexperience?
by the muddling with death? debts formed and cast aside?

louve was unbalanced, unmoored, set adrift in a world where she scrambled for hold and came up lacking every time. a keen mind that seemed dull in comparison to others, a sharp tongue that need be wet again.

she comes because she must, she comes because she yearns for chaos and madness and something other than what had become. dust and bones and broken pieces.

"we are no friends of the rike," she drew up beside her sister, her gaze on icefang, steely and determined, "nor of the sigrun." so what side did they choose? louve had no love for either, but...

"but i would not wish to see luther on the throne again." lines drawn, then, and she on the alert for any that might take offense to it. @Elaine ♔ @Icefang ♔ @Cassius ♔

ART BY XARONARTS, CODE BY DEE, MODIFIED BY GUNNER

Damn slimy, lanky bitch was moving like an eel between his fingertips. His teeth gnashed and tore free flesh, blood flooding his mouth as he sought to spit the disgusting rat flesh to the side, feeling bile rise in his throat. A strange sense of dizziness began to overtake him, creeping ever so subtly on the edges of his consciousness. He grits red-stained teeth, forcing his way through the nauseating feeling. He will not lose today, no matter what witchcraft the Sigrun was planning to pull on him. He’s risen out of it before, he will rise again.

He felt her pull at the meat on his spine, opening the wound further as he turned so he may complete his pivot. Blood splattered, and the terrible throbbing intensified to overtake the flesh near the wound. Luther felt as if he’d drank a potent wine before coming to reclaim his throne and was just now feeling its effects. He felt panic overtake him.

With his body now fully pivoted in a final position of a T towards Zahra, he lurched for her neck again, this time his jaws snapped wide for her throat, teeth seeking to bury deep into her jugular. A quick and rushed movement, driven by this strange anxiety and numbness that threatened to flatten him.

Luther vs. @Zahra
for Ecrosia Mire
Round 3 / 5
Hits:

Rolling 7d20: 9 + 13 + 3 + 6 + 20 + 8 + 17

Dodges:

Rolling 4d20: 20 + 12 + 1 + 6

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 10 + 15 + 20 + 18 + 4

Commotion did have a way of dragging the most surprising of faces from the shadows. Anniston worked her way through the dense marshlands with her ears flattened against her crown, eyes alight with something unknown as they glistened in the late-summer sun. It was clear from the metallic tinge in the air that blood had already been spilled that day – it only remained to be seen how much and by whom. Her tail twitched with eerie remembrance until finally, she placed herself at the perimeter of that crowd.

More like Luther of the underworld.

Anniston blinked. Her chest tightened at the sweet sound of Orson's biting words, blood quickening as she beheld that alabaster figure once more. The last time had been much like this, tucked in the dank mire with a few dozen of their closest friends. Only, last time she had not understood what permanent tether would attach her to the infamous man of the hour. Last time, she was not sitting alone. She had some dogs in that race if she had cared to claim them. When she looked upon the man pillaging and plundering at the center of it all, she had not seen those same baby teeth she had taken to tracing as her son slept, nor the starlight silver of Jett's mane.

This time, she could not look away from him.

---

|| august y12 | four years | vague pride | at ecrosia mire | open ||

Valentine sat unwavering, a sickeningly still disposition overcoming her. Her eyes, glazed, were locked upon the clashing bodies. The waft of iron only furthered her nauseation, but she did not - could not - move. Her heart fell still, and deep within, it felt as though part of her had fallen alongside it. They... No. She had already lost so much. Now to uproot her only remaining blood for what? For a promise of their home long gone perhaps. She sighs, and it feels as though her soul leaves with it.

So much grief, yet so little time to process it; she can only hope Luther will prove his resilience once more. Perhaps, then, she could come to terms with her motherhood - and the loss of it all the same. The hope of freedom seems fleeting to her fragile mind, yet the future of shackles is all she knows now. Her first hope when she came to this new land was one borne of selfishness - a desire of flirtatious provocation without consequence. The yearning for a new life, one of naïve joys and childish indifference. Such a life seems so far now, laughable, even. Perhaps it is the creatures which fed upon her womb that have broken her, or, perhaps, it is the one who put such a demon inside of her.

She sits, now, wiser. Valentine, peering from beneath a lush canopy and sea of bodies, weeps. For the first time in months, she weeps, and for the first time in her life, she loathes. She loathes this stranger who has overtaken their land; in her mind, this woman preyed upon their time of weakness. Valentine holds no pity for the girl whom has pitted herself against Luther now. Feed her to the wolves, she hisses.

And even if she wins, it will be done.

- Valentine is attempting to hide -

bg x art x code

She yearned to see that black blight lioness thumped again into the mud, and held under a solid grave. A yearning most poignant for its close proximity in space and time. Morrigan was the most familiar enemy and thus received her heart's hatred by default, but another rival and another day and her emotional winds might change. It did seem... something was amiss, forcing her ears to quirk out and sideways and nearly unfurled from the inside out in irritation. The pair argued in some weird language... the lioness seemed to be holding back... and with a flinch, suppressed guilt, she saw @Alaric approaching and the scarred, elder male seemed on his last legs. He had been king here; she had been underling. And now she might be easily marked as a traitor.

It hurt her sense of drama more than a little that she was not.

Rather than continuing to hover around someone else's drama, (or so she said), she huffed and rose and spun determined to find something more interesting to incite before the main battle could end. If only Luther would win and she could drive these trespassers away, hmm? There must be some way she was in the right. A temptuous, sniveling sob drew a flick from one ear and the rest of her enterprising face followed. Vulture yellow eyes gleaming on potential prey. Was this a current pride member overcome by the possibility of that red lady losing? Somebody nursing some other weakness? Toblerone could help. Maybe. Unless she managed to spot the blasphemous lioness in her next roll, in which case she would be angry because pink was her color.

-- Attempting to find @Valentine

Rolling 1d10: 8

He takes care to cover his scent, masking himself in nearby brush- to smell like ferns, and fragrant herbs he finds. Eskel makes his way back to the Mire once more, and approaches the chaos he can hear. His eyes scan the crowd- resting on @Morrigan as she finds her in the throes of battle, a discontented rumble in his throat. It is worry that fuels the noise as he watches her, his gaze studying her fight, and ensuring no one else attempts to interfere. He is silent, as he moves towards the crowd- noting the male who he'd witness die here and be resurrected once before. He smells of the Summit, and Eskel nears him, a silent companion to @Alaric, though he doesn't know him- eyes on his Queen, watching as she battled.

ART COPYRIGHT IRISH

Daedric was not here to partake in a fight, he had no knowledge of those involved, or even the relationship the Mire had with Caladan. This uncertainty would need to be sorted, but for now, he might come simply to observe.

He had already been running to build strength in his muscles, lacking in the strength of his older counterparts. It would not hurt to stop briefly in order to observe a fight, eyes instantly finding Luther.

He would watch the pallid male, lightly panting from his endurance training, hoping to observe a move that might be of some benefit to him in a future spar.

PALADIN EXP
+5 Observe a fight
+5 Exercise to gain endurance
+5 Learn a new fighting move

You're the match and the flame

Oxygen to the brain

code: corvus || art: rabbit

She had never wanted this life. Never wanted to be a warrior, and yet she had been thrust into it. Eisa would not fear. She would not falter. She had too many examples of the legacy she was to uphold- to stand for. Her mother. Her grandmothers. Her father. Her sister. They were strong. They were brave, and she would stand. She would not falter. their blood mixed, the blood of the rike and the Sigrun as they fought. would this be the only way the blood would ever mix? she did not have time to wonder, did not have the mental energy to do anything but savor the feeling of her foot stomping down into his as his claws shred into her left forepaw. She snarls, weight shifting- aiming to press even more weight into his right paw, trying to let the weight off the left one if she is able. her teeth victoriously find the edge of his ear, just as his head turns and teeth clamp around her jaws. eisa breathes in his rank breath, snarling as she tries- and potentially fails to snap at his tongue, his inner jaw, anything she may be able to do with her muzzle inside his mouth though she doubts that it would be much. unless his jaw could unhinge like a snake. she would aim, to dig her claws into his paw, and swipe with the left leg aiming to score it down the inside of his leg- hoping to make his jaws part in pain, so that she could free herself- so that she could bite the fuck out of him. maybe she could pull out his teeth. because dude, what the fuck. eisa vs @Rainer for major maim 4/4 hits: Rolling 7d20: 16 + 12 + 15 + 17 + 3 + 13 + 1 dodges: Rolling 4d20: 6 + 20 + 3 + 18 luck: Rolling 5d20: 8 + 18 + 2 + 15 + 11

art by spu

Like a moth to flame, Nazara is drawn towards the conflict. Late, unlike the rest of her kin, she slinks along the gathered masses like a shadow. A poison. A dagger in the dark, coated in silk and velvet. She does her best to purposefully place each foot fall, poised like the royalty she is. A walking, moving piece of art, even with her new found scars.

It doesn't take her long before obsidian eyes lay on @Icefang ♔, @Temero, @Velasco and the man who had started the war in the Lagoon. They were speaking with a woman who smelled of the Bluffs, about something political no doubt. With silence befitting the dark hues of her cost, Nazara simply comes to sit just beside her mother, and slightly off to the left. Her obsidian gaze watches a few more fights break out, scanning the crowd with apathy.

That is, until she sees the all too familiar pale coat of a boy she crossed paths with on bloodied sands. An anger begins to boil in her veins, but Nazara does her best to keep a closed composure. No need to be rushing into a fight she would not win.

"Mother" she breathes quietly, so only Icefang could truly hear "that is the boy who marked me in battle. The one who smelled of the rainforest" she motions towards @Everick with little to no emotion, wondering what in hell they'd do with that information. Nazara, for one, would like to have a name. Mother worshipped the strong, the hungry, the beasts. She was none of them.

I could burn your motherfuckin’ village to the ground—

I could crack your skull between these motherfuckin’ thighs—I could doom your lineage with one look from these eyes! I could name the date in which they’ll put you in the ground—you’re the one who said its justice watchin’ witches drown!

code by corvus art by Drifty