Post by ACRIMONY;; on Mar 5, 2008 9:32:09 GMT -5
Dub me;; Acrimony.
Spin me;; 4.5 rotations.
Love me;; Mare.
Stereotype me;; Dark.
Dip me;; Absolute ink.
Tailor me;; Ebonite hangs from nape and dock.
Peer through me;; Shadowy chocolate.
Know me;; A rather arrogant dame, though she knows her place. Ribbon is laced with barbed wire. Known to not cooperate. She worhips the darkness and loves a good fight. Is not afraid to push others out of her way in order to get what she wants. Lusts after power and will do anything to get it. Manipulative.
Trace me;; She was born as any other horse. Just a filly, in a some herd. The herd held no alliance and she was not raised to be as she is. At age three, Acrimony left home. She was tired of the day-to-day life of a herd and wanted to find more. See, this dame was simply born ill-tempered. No strange occurance tainted any innocence she might have been born with. She wandered from land to land, seeking what she did not have. Even the dove does not know what she seeks. Nevertheless, she has chosen Mariposa as her next home, temporary or otherwise.
Judge me;; (Masochist from Stay Alive)
Swaggering stride is led by careless flints, knocking on loose gravel that mars the baron’s path. Whipcord dances lazily behind him, swirling like ocean foam around his hocks. Audits remain motionless, neither dancing around in a hunt for sound nor lying flat against his skull. Visionaries are dull neither in stupidity nor ill health, but by option. Disinterest seems to simply ooze from the stag’s nonchalant posture. He is a bachelor, obviously, indicated by his lolling saunter and the testosterone that managed to roll off of his presence like water off of a duck’s back.
What is there to observe, anyway? None of the pixies he had passed had caught his eye, yet. They were all the same; dainty vixens with flashy canvases, sultry lashes batting at the slightest chance of gaining a soldier’s attention. He had seen them, claimed them, bred them, and carried on his way. For all Masochist knew, his eight short rotations had resulted in at least one offspring. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out whether his ventures had produced an heir or not. Why be bothered with the mood swings of a pregnant fae, the bloody mess created by the birth, the unavoidable trouble of raising the thing? A shudder traces the Hessian’s bony spine; the idea of fatherhood was not one he patronized. He was a carefree playboy, and determined to remain as much for the rest of his days. What was the joy in life if he didn’t seduce a dove now and then? Attraction was a game for one such as Masochist, a monopoly that he enjoyed above all hobbies. He considered him an expert on such a routine. It was simple, really; mares were easily controlled. They had buttons; press the right ones and he was in.
Masochist had simply been born to act upon his urges. He was well aware of his brawny frame, strapping chest, glossy canvas. He was a fine piece of flesh, and he knew it. If he didn’t pursue a femme, she would pursue him. Why make her endure the effort? He considered himself a gentleman to put a mare’s wellbeing over his own. After all, the voyage into the heart he lacked could be a strenuous one.
Stilts suddenly cease their thoughtless exercises, daggers scuttling on the loam to bring his corpse to a stand-still. The Claming Grounds, at last. A smirk teases his mug; so this was where it all began. Every step his hungry pillars lurched was one more closer to whatever may call to him in this land of shadow and lust. Surely at least one ess would leave with him tonight? If not voluntarily, then Masochist would find another means of bringing her to his mountainous abode. It was his way, after all, his calling, his nature. Whatever it might be labeled, it defined Masochist in an unchangeable state of affairs. He was what he was, and none would ever be able to tame the soldier.
Audits stand erect, leaving their position against his angular skull to swivel from left to right. The faintest whisper of movement encounters his thirsty eardrums, its origin floating somewhere near. A snort is released via nostrils, one spade striking the dirt to offer a reply that will be heard by no one but himself. Dial is thrown backwards, the brute lifting in a semi-rear whilst flints carve the wind as forelegs strike the heavens in a challenge to nothing at all. For that was another part of Masochist, another piece in the never-ending puzzle that was his twisted mind. He would never back away from a fight; if anything, he was the one to initiate a brawl. He was a proud thing, aware of his well-muscled figure and artfully chiseled façade that went hand-in-hand with the chauvinistic poetry that dripped from his mug, slipped from his silver tongue and laced out of velveteen kissers with ease. Masochist was an artist, that much was true; a prodigy in the ways of words. This was his most impressive trait, surpassing his physical finery by far. The Hessian spun words as a human would weave a tapestry; producing beauty with the least amount of effort visible, practiced enough in his trade to hide the mechanisms that took place behind the screen.
Auditory units manage to zero in on the constant sound, tangents continuing at a reserved walk so that he might pause every once in awhile to calculate the exact location of the alluring presence. Bodice bends this way and that, weaving in and out of the conifers that spring from the damp terra. Lamps are cast around every once in awhile, crown shaken in defiance. He was growing impatience, the urge every stallion understood triggered by the croon, drawing him closer, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. Ligaments skid to a abrupt halt for the second time this evening, satisfaction reflected in Masochist’s gleaming lanterns. A painted doe stands not 100 yards away, etched dome swiveling as his own acted to take in her petite frame. Her multihued canvas seems to glow in the fading light of evening, lovely façade focusing on nothing in particular. She is at ease; that much is evident from her leisurely posture. Masochist is immediately intrigued. A breath is taken in, filling his lungs with sweet oxygen before appendages venture forwards and out into the open.
His own crown is inclined in greeting, thorns quivering high to indicate that he means no harm. Lucid pools scan her own bodice, but no physical irregularities hint to what might have brought her here. Masochist meanders a few more steps forwards, acting as if to angle himself better but really approaching her at a more intimate distance. He allows her proper personal space, though manages to lock himself in a position so that he might view her with undaunted clarity, as well as she might overlook him with ease. Lips flutter open, ivories flashing in the shimmer of moonglow that manages to peek through the suppressing cloud cover. "G’eve, dame. I am known as Masochist." The vocals are tossed outwards in a polite, yet loosely casual form, yet the simple words are braided with charm. A gentle shake of his dial is given, freeing his gaze from the lush tendrils spawned from his forehead. "Might I be so bold as to inquire your title, Miss…?" The question draws to a close, its sound vibrating in the air before fading away to leave the duo in silence. Dark gems peer into her own, shameless in their curious pursuit.
Spin me;; 4.5 rotations.
Love me;; Mare.
Stereotype me;; Dark.
Dip me;; Absolute ink.
Tailor me;; Ebonite hangs from nape and dock.
Peer through me;; Shadowy chocolate.
Know me;; A rather arrogant dame, though she knows her place. Ribbon is laced with barbed wire. Known to not cooperate. She worhips the darkness and loves a good fight. Is not afraid to push others out of her way in order to get what she wants. Lusts after power and will do anything to get it. Manipulative.
Trace me;; She was born as any other horse. Just a filly, in a some herd. The herd held no alliance and she was not raised to be as she is. At age three, Acrimony left home. She was tired of the day-to-day life of a herd and wanted to find more. See, this dame was simply born ill-tempered. No strange occurance tainted any innocence she might have been born with. She wandered from land to land, seeking what she did not have. Even the dove does not know what she seeks. Nevertheless, she has chosen Mariposa as her next home, temporary or otherwise.
Judge me;; (Masochist from Stay Alive)
Swaggering stride is led by careless flints, knocking on loose gravel that mars the baron’s path. Whipcord dances lazily behind him, swirling like ocean foam around his hocks. Audits remain motionless, neither dancing around in a hunt for sound nor lying flat against his skull. Visionaries are dull neither in stupidity nor ill health, but by option. Disinterest seems to simply ooze from the stag’s nonchalant posture. He is a bachelor, obviously, indicated by his lolling saunter and the testosterone that managed to roll off of his presence like water off of a duck’s back.
What is there to observe, anyway? None of the pixies he had passed had caught his eye, yet. They were all the same; dainty vixens with flashy canvases, sultry lashes batting at the slightest chance of gaining a soldier’s attention. He had seen them, claimed them, bred them, and carried on his way. For all Masochist knew, his eight short rotations had resulted in at least one offspring. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out whether his ventures had produced an heir or not. Why be bothered with the mood swings of a pregnant fae, the bloody mess created by the birth, the unavoidable trouble of raising the thing? A shudder traces the Hessian’s bony spine; the idea of fatherhood was not one he patronized. He was a carefree playboy, and determined to remain as much for the rest of his days. What was the joy in life if he didn’t seduce a dove now and then? Attraction was a game for one such as Masochist, a monopoly that he enjoyed above all hobbies. He considered him an expert on such a routine. It was simple, really; mares were easily controlled. They had buttons; press the right ones and he was in.
Masochist had simply been born to act upon his urges. He was well aware of his brawny frame, strapping chest, glossy canvas. He was a fine piece of flesh, and he knew it. If he didn’t pursue a femme, she would pursue him. Why make her endure the effort? He considered himself a gentleman to put a mare’s wellbeing over his own. After all, the voyage into the heart he lacked could be a strenuous one.
Stilts suddenly cease their thoughtless exercises, daggers scuttling on the loam to bring his corpse to a stand-still. The Claming Grounds, at last. A smirk teases his mug; so this was where it all began. Every step his hungry pillars lurched was one more closer to whatever may call to him in this land of shadow and lust. Surely at least one ess would leave with him tonight? If not voluntarily, then Masochist would find another means of bringing her to his mountainous abode. It was his way, after all, his calling, his nature. Whatever it might be labeled, it defined Masochist in an unchangeable state of affairs. He was what he was, and none would ever be able to tame the soldier.
Audits stand erect, leaving their position against his angular skull to swivel from left to right. The faintest whisper of movement encounters his thirsty eardrums, its origin floating somewhere near. A snort is released via nostrils, one spade striking the dirt to offer a reply that will be heard by no one but himself. Dial is thrown backwards, the brute lifting in a semi-rear whilst flints carve the wind as forelegs strike the heavens in a challenge to nothing at all. For that was another part of Masochist, another piece in the never-ending puzzle that was his twisted mind. He would never back away from a fight; if anything, he was the one to initiate a brawl. He was a proud thing, aware of his well-muscled figure and artfully chiseled façade that went hand-in-hand with the chauvinistic poetry that dripped from his mug, slipped from his silver tongue and laced out of velveteen kissers with ease. Masochist was an artist, that much was true; a prodigy in the ways of words. This was his most impressive trait, surpassing his physical finery by far. The Hessian spun words as a human would weave a tapestry; producing beauty with the least amount of effort visible, practiced enough in his trade to hide the mechanisms that took place behind the screen.
Auditory units manage to zero in on the constant sound, tangents continuing at a reserved walk so that he might pause every once in awhile to calculate the exact location of the alluring presence. Bodice bends this way and that, weaving in and out of the conifers that spring from the damp terra. Lamps are cast around every once in awhile, crown shaken in defiance. He was growing impatience, the urge every stallion understood triggered by the croon, drawing him closer, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. Ligaments skid to a abrupt halt for the second time this evening, satisfaction reflected in Masochist’s gleaming lanterns. A painted doe stands not 100 yards away, etched dome swiveling as his own acted to take in her petite frame. Her multihued canvas seems to glow in the fading light of evening, lovely façade focusing on nothing in particular. She is at ease; that much is evident from her leisurely posture. Masochist is immediately intrigued. A breath is taken in, filling his lungs with sweet oxygen before appendages venture forwards and out into the open.
His own crown is inclined in greeting, thorns quivering high to indicate that he means no harm. Lucid pools scan her own bodice, but no physical irregularities hint to what might have brought her here. Masochist meanders a few more steps forwards, acting as if to angle himself better but really approaching her at a more intimate distance. He allows her proper personal space, though manages to lock himself in a position so that he might view her with undaunted clarity, as well as she might overlook him with ease. Lips flutter open, ivories flashing in the shimmer of moonglow that manages to peek through the suppressing cloud cover. "G’eve, dame. I am known as Masochist." The vocals are tossed outwards in a polite, yet loosely casual form, yet the simple words are braided with charm. A gentle shake of his dial is given, freeing his gaze from the lush tendrils spawned from his forehead. "Might I be so bold as to inquire your title, Miss…?" The question draws to a close, its sound vibrating in the air before fading away to leave the duo in silence. Dark gems peer into her own, shameless in their curious pursuit.
