Magnus
Warlord
The King was as much a part of this whispering landscape as the earth supporting the grass.
Posts: 1,149
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Post by freedom on May 3, 2015 19:51:44 GMT -7
KING OF COLD.
A looming figure was he, his shoulders high his black mane thrashing like a discontented prisoner upon his thickly crested neck. His body, once young and strong, now took on a different shape. He was just as impressive yet his striking appearance was no longer due to the stunning grace of a young stallion, but rather was due to his jagged indefeasible kingly appeal. It seemed with the years, as the scars and memories increased, the powerful tyrant's already noble appearance became extensively regal. He was a stone stag now, marbled with dapples even in his impressive age, regal, immovable, he was as much a part of this whispering landscape as the earth supporting the grass. His black moon had his blood speared throughout borne Mustang horses, breeding more would do little on his already monstrous imprint. Although, he was sure, he could still convince a mare of his sublime bloodline, maybe she would remember her mother telling some chronicle about him and realize that he was not bluffing about his past power. Oh! To have a harem! Oh to have a herd! To rule a land! Specifically this one! The chilling beast rolled a bout of air from his depriven lungs shooting gusts of hot steam into the freezing air.
The old stud's sanity was slipping, but never his memory. No, Warlord would not forget his achievements. He was destined to be an henchman to a larger stallion in another land, but fate proved otherwise. While his master had failed in the fires of karma, Warlord prevailed into new territory, he had fought and lost one shining eye, given stripes of pain to his enemy, and claimed a vast and chilly landscape. Not to mention his success in creating healthy foals, and breeding more than almost any horse heard of.
His head slacked where it had never before and he was suddenly unsure of the past events. It was as if he had been asleep for years. No, he was back it was the year 3, he was still young and strong, completely stricken with power and his head was blown so far above the Earth he could not see the inevitability of death. He was quickly thrown back violently to the present. The ache in his heart roared. This ache might have fueled his passion for battle some few years ago, back when he was able and strong. It would have fueled him to round a thriving herd and claim his home. But not now, he was a stone. The mist around him cooed his name and brushed over his dark back like a comforting friend. His body was cold, his one blue eye grimaced with life, but now with the gleam of an old wise man, and his heart was heavy in his barreled chest. For all the power, fight, steam, passion, and war he had tangled himself in, here he was in all his glory of life. A survivor of tragedy. Alone. Still as death, yet still standing. Nothing to comfort him but the stillness of his body, as if the budge of a toe would enlock a stew of bubbling sorrow.
There was one thing, though.
One simple, primal pride that kept that stallion standing. His offspring. That jubilation at the sign of a black moon, or the explanation from a familiar face. He was proud. It seemed he was constantly running into a relation, or a horse who knew a relation of his. His pride coursed as it did in his youth. Regardless of his lack of, land, strength, or even the happiness of simple company, the stallion was restful with satisfaction. Though, his relation did not alway feel so fond of him. As it was, he was not the most attentive of fathers, and when he was, he was strict and inelastic to say the least. One may assume his lordlyship would have some inkling of regret as an old stud, but this was not the case. There is a certain myth that deems old age as a domesticating force. This, would not be the case in the form of Warlord. If ever there a furiously stubborn wild creature it was him.
His form, bulky and cold as it was, rose, unlike the corpse he would soon become, to make way through the hungry fog once more. His body shivered with implied power of many a confrontation, one could glimpse at the old king and have a good idea of what he may have lived through. Warlord lifted his grand roman-nosed head to the dawn's darkened sky, as if in expectation of the sun's greeting. However, this was not the case. His kinglyship was strewn with confusion, as per usual, but furthermore he missed his enemy. The frivolous demented tussles they would have, the loss of his eye, the en-carving of skin, the white scars that lined their foreheads with daydreams. It seemed a silly thing to miss the friction of anger between two haughty stallions. But Drover was his major vibrancy in life. The only one who really every stuck around. They had bestown gifts of scars upon each other, they were acts of violence and hatred, yet somehow they fueled him and kept him livid with life.
Of course, middle-aged youth and success was not his only name. Perhaps, because of this very reason it was that he did not grow bitter in age. Rather, he changed, estranging his mind, contorting his character to new length. He was instilled before the second Mustang. Not remembered of course, but there was a life in the first Mustang home. A plain warrior of sorts for a much larger stallion, yet, before even his henchman stage in life Warlord was a foal. A mere colt, stuttering on his lengthy legs, learning the violence of generations; something he would take with him through life. His roots were there, and he hoped one day, perhaps more would come in his place, though let them never conquer his feats.
It seems ludicrous not to mention the mares. Yes, his family life was mentioned here, but the mares were all but separate. Sure, they bore his offspring, but they were so much more to him. The passion he felt towards mares was deep, he believed them strong, capable, and even grew attachment towards a special few. Of course, there would be absolutely no denying his absolute abundance of them in his life. Without mares, there would be no power for him. And now, it seems, mares finally get to take throne, their rightful position. But it is not without torture as Warlord finds himself alone. Alone, standing as a boulder in a field of bones, no one lover, no one secure member to hunt him down time after time by his side, coaxing sanity out of insanity. Alone but so unafraid.
The pure lack of fear in the hulking lord of war was almost as striking as his scars, in the rebirth through fire the hellcat experienced he begun a transformation into a prideful tyrant. Potential, finally shining with the death of his past imprisonment, leading him on to success, and now in age, surrounded by water vapor and pride.
It seems a meaningful life.
"Damn it, cat."
A crash and a stumble the massive animal falls, conscious of his own happenings yet blind to the truth of his situation. The hairy blood of a mountain lion sticks to his yellowed rotting teeth, a mark of insanity in his decent. A few yards away the old stallion had murdered a mountain lion, its body lay torn, mirroring Warlord's own scarred and bloated form under the gaze of the moon.
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ooc; In case it is unclear, Warlord, symbolically, dies of insanity, bloodlust, and protectiveness. But physically he dies of old age and in defense of Foggy Hills and a mountain lion. Even though it is no longer his claimed territory.
-My poor baaaaby D'; I had a REALLY hard time posting this OH MY GOD
-He is in the Foggy Hills description with Drover! You should totally use his ghost in your posts *nod*
-You are welcome to post your character's reactions to this scene. -Warlord is dead, however.
"Speech"
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