The Ɔall is Made

[Ƨhatan]

Sacrificial Resonance fights Jack for Sinful Utopia.

The stakes, steeped in blood:

ǂǂ No intro’s.
ǂǂ Two posts each.
ǂǂ Two attacks, no dodges.
ǂǂ Sacrificial Resonance attacks first.
ǂǂ Victor wins Sinful Utopia and all mares within the terra.
ǂǂ Loser is killed.
ǂǂ Posting minimum of 1000 words, no maximum.

Ƨacrificial Ʀesonance
We are
We are the shaken
We are the monsters
Underneath your bed

[/b]

Kill your enemies,

Kill, kill, kill, blood, blood, blood. The chant repeated itself within his mind, the bloodlust rising to his aid; the Call to Sacrifice had chosen a victim, and now it egged him on, sent him forth, willed his muscles to activity, filled his body with strength, and bid him to kill. And kill he most definitely would, and enjoy every second of it, at that. Blood and death would be his tonight, and he would revel in the feeling as his enemy’s crimsons stained his chocolate pelt, soaked into his ivorn daggers, fed his killing spirit with another beautiful death as he removed this piece of unworthy filth from the land. He would drink of victory tonight when he sent another soul to the void, reveled in the first death of a victim dedicated to himself. For had he not sent the souls of the others to the void in the name of his father? Wicked smirk spread across the ebony velveteen maw of the stag; this kill would be his and his alone. This blood price would be paid to him, and he would take strength from it. This sacrifice would be made in his glory, would build the fear within this land, so that all would know his name and fear the terrible fate of sacrificial victims which fell to his hooves.

Oh how he did indeed look forward to the stopping of another heart. That happy little sound, that tick, tick, tick that horses listened to while awaiting their own demise, their impending doom, that trip to the void; how he did indeed love putting an end to that repulsive heart beat, that infuriating, throbbing sound. He reveled in the sound of it slowing to a crawl, beating a few more times in begging agony, as though pleading for relief, for safety, for an end, and then, at last, in wondrous glory, as it was granted that release, going silent. The perfect music to his bloody dance as he spread his fallen victim’s crimsons across his hooves, tore their corpse to pieces to be left about the battleground in tribute to another tally up on the board, another victim fallen to the Call.

Jack, the name was a mere whisper deep within his soul. He knew the origins of this whisper well: that dank, bloody cave deep within his tainted soul, the home of the Call to Sacrifice that led him on, that urged him to kill, that gave him strength, and fed his bloodlust. It had chosen a victim, and would whisper the name in his soul until the heart of the chosen had finally ceased to beat. A glint sparked deep in his chocolate orbs: the glint of the killer within him, awakened by the voice in his soul, taking control of his bodice so that he did as bid. Hear that, Jacky? That whispery voice? The Call has chosen you, Jacky; are you ready for your end? Velvets parted, and into the air spilled a chilling sound, a deep chuckle; he felt the fire ignite within him, a darker flame than had right to burn in any light land, in any light soul, or anywhere that the sun did shine; but these were not lands owned by the lights, and this was no light stallion, and here, at the base of this canyon, where ice coated the hardened, desolate ground, this was where the sun had no right to shine. The fire burned and raged within him, demanding fuel, and only one fuel would do: flesh.

Ah, yes, he knew this fire well, that heat within his soul, within his powerful frame, burning and burning, consuming all traces of caution, remorse, and morals within him, replacing them with the ash of death and decay, the want to kill, the need to kill, and to kill, and to keep killing until there were none left to kill. And his ivorn flints would take him another step down that path, into that flame and darkness, following the road to ultimate domination through death and fear and slaughter. He smirked, his hooves doing just that as he followed their dignified, forceful steps to the despairing canyon where the battle would be fought. In he drank the heavy air, sighing in pleasure; yes, this place was the perfect scene for a sacrifice, the perfect altar onto which he would lead the sacrificial lamb happily to its untimely demise.

My brothers dead around me,

Ah, yes, the sacrificial lamb, the chosen victim of the Call; so many had come and gone through the stallion’s 7 years. His mind’s eye flashed to life with visions of glorious death and flying blood, the flash of daggers in the air, the tearing of teeth through flesh. He reveled at the visions from the past, naming each victim as their death flashed within his mind. Winter’s Breeze, Caledonia, Acario, and…but that one never had a name, blunt ivories bared in a smirk at the memory; yes, he remembered that sickly little foal. A smaller, pathetic copy of himself, his own brother, deemed unworthy by his father; the blood of that pathetic colt had been demanded simply for its offending presence, and he, Sacrificial Resonance, had slaughtered the ridiculous piece of filth gladly.

He did indeed take joy over the thing’s death; it hardly merited the right to be called his brother, and certainly would never earn the right to be called the son of Deity. Resonance had taken pride in getting rid of the shameful thing, in obliterated all traces of its existence, of sending the pathetic being into the void from which it would never return. He had been ashamed of the pathetic being as much as his father had, and had taken joy in having been accepted in his father’s eyes when he had been born. That was the way of things, the extent to which the fire within him could decimate all traces of morals within him in a wonderful conflagration, leaving behind only a wish to kill; and kill he most certainly did.

Death is creeping for me you,

That was what was within him now; that burning fire that demanded blood and flesh and death of him, and he would gladly feed that fire, set his soul further ablaze, keep it burning, for he thrived upon that blaze. Every muscle and bone and tendon within him ached to feel the heat of that dark fire, and he would feed it and gain strength. Every cell in his body, his entire being, his entire soul, everything that he was, called out for death, and the voice continually whispered the name of the lamb: Jack, Jack, Jack.

And, speak of the Devil, there he was, standing in all his pathetic filth, that ebony-pelted ivory-spotted disgrace, that piece of bile which he would soon rid the world of. Are you ready, Jacky? I’m coming, Jacky. Are you ready to face your death?

Ivory flints halted, chocolate hide rippling above powerful muscles as they leapt to work, eager to appease the fire within. Seventeen hands of pureblood Dutch warmblood was thrown into the air, his weight thrown upon his hind legs, his ivory daggers digging into the ice coating the scarred land as his flints carved their path through the air, ebony strands of mane and tail dancing the dance of death and blood as he let forth a trumpeting call, a call which spoke of death soon to come, a soul to join the void: the Call to Sacrifice. Are you ready, Jacky? Are you ready for this? For your death? I’m coming, Jacky, I’m coming for you. The Call is coming for you. Death is coming for you.

Hearts are pounding,

The call ended with a thunderous slamming of hooves upon shattering ice and hardened earth beneath as the stallion leapt forth from his rear, ivory flints carving a path in the canyon grounds as he thundered forth in a death-bringing gallop, ebony tresses dancing with his movements, his entire form dancing a dance of decay, his pounding, thundering heart the music that accompanied this dance, the beating of his enemy’s heart the background to it. Orbs of chocolate blazed with an overwhelming bloodlust as the sacrifice grew near. He could already taste the sweet blood now, could imagine the screams of the appaloosa, could feel the tearing of flesh, the crunching of bone beneath his blood-stained hooves: he could see the death of this stallion within his mind, and his orbs would see it come to pass.

With all the momentum of a runaway train, the stallion bore down upon his opponent, his hooves cutting through the thin layer of ice which coated the grounds of the canyon, his weight and the force of his flints catching traction with each step as he neared his opponent. Daggers suddenly halted, their ivorn flint digging into the ice, the stallions muscles screaming against the effort as he halted his momentum, slamming the force onto his hind legs as his fore hooves lifted from the ground once more, but this was not simply just a rear-and-kick; no, he wanted a more satisfying attack. He wanted to taste this stallion’s blood within his maw, to rip his flesh from his bone with a crushing bite, to send him into a frenzy of fear at such a savage attack.

Chaos soon ignites,

Chocolate harks pinned to his nape, hidden beneath the dancing trails of ebony mane and forelock, as his velveteen maw parted, his ivories gnashing the air as his fore hooves slammed back into the ice, throwing his weight forward as his powerful nape extended, his maw slamming closed in a vicious bite as he aimed at the other stallion’s neck. With any luck, he would catch a vice-like grip upon the underside of his victim’s neck. If only he could catch the joint between head and neck, ripping at the veins there, and if only he could catch so strong a grip as to hold his foe there, struggling against him, until his last breaths drained from him. Oh how glorious an end that would be, to tear his enemy’s veins from his body before he even laid hoof or tooth upon his killer’s form. How wonderful it would be to perform another spotless sacrifice. He reveled in the hopes for victory, the burning within him that demanded death, demanded blood, that called out, shouting within his skull, to kill this pathetic piece of filth that dared call itself a stallion.

The call is made,

The bloodlust was blinding, the call deafening as it reverberated within his skull and down to his soul, all the way to that dank, bloody cave, drowning out the whispers that called, still, Jack, Jack, Jack. All he heard was the roaring of the flame within his body, all he felt was the complete, overwhelming desire to kill, all he saw was his mind’s conjured images of this pathetic little upstart’s glorious, bloody demise. His mind showed him all the wonderful, pleasing sights that would come with the death of this stallion, all the possible ways he could put an end to that infuriating sound of his still beating heart.

So many ways to choose from, so many ways to end this stallion’s worthless life, to send his soul, screaming, into that whirling void from which no soul could ever hope to return from. He still knew not how his attack had ended, whether he had caught his opponent’s neck or not, whether or not, even now, his ivories clung to the flesh of his opponent. He knew not, and yet, still his mind raced to the future, following the path set down by that burning bloodlust, that desire to shed blood and kill, which led his mind to the goal, that marked out exactly how he would slaughter this stallion and strew his filthy form all throughout the ice of this canyon, staining it red with glorious, beautiful blood. His mind walked that bloody path, gaining strength from the sheer power of his desires, of his bloodlust. Again he felt every fiber of his being united in the call for blood and death, he felt that wish to mercilessly slaughter this pathetic steed. With gnashing teeth and flying hooves, he would dance the dance of death, of blood, of decay, of sacrifice upon the form of this stallion, and victory would be his.

Will I Meet Thy My Maker?

_{Attacks: I I
Dodges: None allowed.
Attack Intended: Res is galloping full-out towards Jack, but stops right before reaching him, using his momentum to give force to a bite aimed at Jack’s neck; Res is intending to take hold of Jack’s neck and hold on as long as he can.
Damage Taken: None yet.}

[/sub]

Ɔall Ʈo Ƨacrifice
We are
We are mistaken
We are the voices
Inside your head

_{Word Count: 2056
Lyrics © Matchbook Romance, Bullet for my Valentine
Character and Post © Shatan}[/size]

[Jack]

&& What a shame we all became such fragile, broken things. Quietness. Pure quietness, that settled upon the land, Mother Nature casting the inaudible veil of night amongst all earth’s creatures. Child sun was put to rest, tucked in by the horizon, which blanketed him, cradling the orb into a far off realm. She did not want her child to witness what was destined to take place upon the moor tonight. Such a scene, so graphic was not meant for such a chaste thing. Something so amicable could not lay eyes upon a deed so horrifying, that even the moon was hidden on this night. Luna was certainly not primeval to the sight of slaughter. Quite often, she gazed down to the Lithosphere, where the creatures of the night roamed. The beasts of the carnivorous world, all on the same quest, to feed the hunger within them. It was survival of the fittest, as serpent ate mouse, owl snacked on serpent, the dingo crushing the wings of the owl. A vicious cycle, which Luna oversaw. But not even the keeper of the night, the hours of death, could lay witness to these two titans of the canyon. She had to look away, the maiden of the midnight sky. Soft, ivory craters hid behind the precipitation, as it crawled unto the canvas like sky, dark as the raven’s feathers as its fingers ensnarled her crescent frame. Life was squeezed from her heavenly body, as it too like the sun was hurled into the realm of darkness. There would be no audience, no testifier, no on looker. The titans would ascend to the world of the carnivores alone, spilling blood like the canine-toothed. For tonight and tonight only, the boundary between docile equine and killer would be crossed. Brethren blood would spill, upon brethren daggers. It was a law amongst those of the same kind, one that was respected by all. But tonight, the rules would be broken, like rusted chains they’d snap, unleashing a whole new world of combat. Tonight, they’d dance. They’d dance the forbidden dance of death. Already, the crisp wind stung the grounds, howling like the lyrics of a corrupted, distorted band that played on instruments from hell. The stage awaited them, the partners of the promenade just needed to come together center stage. Did they know the steps? This dance was one known by all; whether or not they ever stepped to its beat was another story. Sacrifical Resonance, the name itself gave it away. He knew this dance; he’d done it before. He had waltzed over the lives of others, Jack was sure, so very sure. This, however, was not good. It would be an advantage to the bay stallion, one that Jack lacked. Terrible, wasn’t it? That the warrior was rushing into battle, without a plan of action, without the knowledge, a totally empty shell? There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wasn’t capable of slaughter, but how much didn’t he know? What if he forgot the steps? Strike one, but Jack was not out.

&& A memory remains, just a tiny spark. Even with the tenseness of the impending doom, all was silent. The sort of silent that could only denote a sinister aura in the air, the foreboding of so dark an act that the Gods wept in anticipation. No, surely they were tears from angels. So ivory and pure in color, like pieces of cloud that had passed away, their lifeless corpses gently, softly riding the wind to their graves. Though, they would not die so quickly. The Lithosphere, frozen by Winter’s kiss, was kind. It cradled the tender little things, like a mother holding an infant. But, they could not escape death. Intrepid daggers sliced the earth, russet exteriors swathed with a chilly layer of snow. How symbolic, that the angels would cry something so chilling, as cold as death. True, Jack did not know the feeling of death. The blood in his veins still ran warm, that rhythmic beating within his chest still in time with his stride. However, he had witnessed death. And, if there was one thing he could remember from those early days, it was how the cold ate away at the corpse. From the moment the dead lay their body among the soil, the cold from the boulders beneath them grips their body, ringing it of its color, its shape, its life. The cold was their demise, down to their last breathe, as it left their maw in a white wisp that slithers to the skies, the ghost of their being bidding them farewell. And like the fossil they became, their memory just froze to the mind. Permafrost were the memories, forever engraved like a tattoo to the brain. But as the snow did to the moor, memories could be buried, buried by the now, the present. And, as those flints of his danced along the soil, he forgot those deaths of the past, and focused on the death of now. The hands of time were climbing the porcelain face of some invisible clock, seconds and minutes pouring down upon him. One, two, three, only time would tell the fate of these two warriors. Who’s life would be taken on this night? Who would breathe that final, cold breath? Flank shivered, spine vibrating as a chill wavered its way into his skull. However, from the cold, it was not. Fear had crept its way into him, like a disease, and infected him. To not feel fear in a situation like this, no matter how unmoral one was, was unrealistic. Even Satan himself knew when to feel fear. Though, on the contrary. Fear did not make one weak, or timid. Fear was the fuel behind the attack, the charge behind the thrust of the dagger into the opponent’s heart. If it were not for fear, one would not have the drive to kill, to commit genocide. Fear is what drove the wily coyote to the serpent, the wise owl to the mouse. Fear of losing, of losing to this game of life. And, in the same way, the young stallion one-two stepped to what could possibly be his demise. Knowing fully the consequences was the power behind his stride. The fear of losing his life, of becoming a sacrifice… would be his motivation.

&& I give it all my oxygen. But what about Sacrificial Resonance’s fear? Surely, he too shuddered in thought of the cost of their petty little competition? To think he did not was impossible, but… what if? What if this foe Jack had picked was beyond those feelings, feelings of the sane, what if he was above God? Ah, this was called arrogance. Ebon velvet maw creased into a wicked smirk, the thick voice that emanated from his deep chest dripped from his maw, syrupy and deviant. Brashness was nothing to flaunt, and though rumors were dangerous to trust, from what he had gathered, the brute they called Sacrificial Resonance was of the sort. Conceit clouded the mind, fogged their interpretation of their own abilities, and in the end lead to their downfall. That would be his weakness, his Achilles’ heel, so to speak. Jack could only wonder… how would it feel, for the killer to be killed? For the lamb to kill the mighty wolf that had aimed to take its life? The canyon already wreaked the stench of death. To add another tally to its record would be nothing. The death of Sacrifical Resonance would mean nothing to these canyons, nothing to the world. All that would remain of him would be his crimson blood that stained the gorge on this night, mere graffiti that defaced the chasm. And, in time, any remaining memories of him would just fade away, his blood lost to time, his being forgotten. Simply amazing, wasn’t it? That something so accomplished, that had so many desires and lusted for so much, could be erased in a matter of seconds? The memory of him would turn to ash, just like his home, Sinful Utopia. But just as a life is erased, so is everything they own. Their name, smitten from their property, taken away. How horrible a death it would be, viewing the world from hell, to see his successor’s filthy grasp among everything that had ever been important to him? To burn for an eternity, unable to reclaim? For now, he’d better enjoy the draft of Winter’s cruel breathe, it would be his last. Nostrils flaring, the tender pink innards exposed, the brute took in a deep breathe. He, too, would relish this moment. The feeling of the wind, biting his flank, whipping his mane about in a fury. Even with each lash of an ebony lock, he grinned. Nothing, no force on this earth, would be more of a punishment to his body than this. His feeble, virgin body; so perfect and untouched. Every pore on his bodice had gone its life not knowing pain; rare it was, but Jack had never known the feeling of physical pain. Could this possibly be another experience his opponent had that he did not? Surely, his foe had not been granted the blessing of living a pain free life. Surely, his body was scarred, toned, and skilled in the art of war. Just fodder to the flame it was, and already, the inferno that raged within the young appaloosa stallion burned with the intensity of the sun. Something Jack would be wary of, true, but just another reason he’d have to fight like the carnivore, to stay alive. It was merely a contest, a wager to determine which of the two of them was more fit. But, as he moved along the barren terra, he was beginning to doubt himself. So far, the wolf seemed more fit for survival in this world than the lamb… the sacrificial lamb. Strike two.

&& So let the flames begin. For the time being, though, he waited. Like a lamb to the slaughter, he sat, unknowing, beady black eyes staring off into an even darker canvas. It took two to tango, so where was his partner? Nowhere to be found? Hollow eyes gazed through the misted dark, down the face of the ledge he stood upon, into the rocky gorge beneath. Dozens of them, protruding from the earth. The mouth of the underworld it was, gaping and flashing its many razor fangs. A few feet worth of drop, but one that Jack certainly did not want to fall. Tassle licked hocks as he backed, the ledge becoming more distant to him as he placed himself into safety. The snowflakes, falling one by one into the abyss, would only satisfy for its hunger now. Piercing the sky like a bolt of lightning, the call of a far off coyote split the terrain. The cry ascended, ringing like a bell before, reaching its highest apex, settled, vibrating several times into higher pitch before it was smothered by wind. The painted stallion trembled, tossing his crown to calm the nerves. That organ, in his chest, he could feel it. It pounded hard now, punching its skin cell like a prisoner from an asylum. Swallowing, he released a held breathe, the moist pant, fogging the air before him, oh so reminiscent to the final breathe of the dying. Finally, that fluttering in his innards was settling. However, at the same time, the pounding resonated in his ears, vibrating his brain to its core, shaking his skull. And, even yet, the less that organ pounded, the louder the vibrations became. Muscles tightened, crown snapping to the right. Forelock was tossed behind his ebon receivers, allowing his eyes full vision. He was meant to see this, this site. Yes, it was this sight that would tremble the young stallion in his skin, send chills like electricity paralyzing his being. His partner had arrived, his daggers like lead against the icy ground, pounding one two three four. The dance was impeccable, his steps as if he knew just what he was doing. The waltz was without falter, without mistake. Through the mist and the snow he came, barreling down the canyon side, into the appaloosa frozen like deer in the headlights. Did Jack not know how to act? Was his body already frozen, even before death? All muscles tensed, protruding from tight, ebon skin as his foe came closer. Those features, would this be the last picture he saw? Framed by Luna’s poignant light, his body glistening in an invisible layer of wrath and pride, that greatly outshined Jack’s own. Eyes of raven feathers clashed, in a moment where the world stopped spinning. Deadlocked, the glow of lust shimmering in the Warmblood’s pools. The hands of Father Time were merciless, and as the struck midnight, the first blow would be dealt. The reaper lay his sickle upon the flesh of the damned, upon levitating in the air briefly before his entire weight had come down into the hilt of his might weapon. Ivorn fangs mangled with ebony tress, seeking past the locks. The arrow had hit its mark, a bulls-eye. Daggers sank into tissue, sinking further and further before it could sink no more. Shielded finally by muscle, the blow was ended, right before it could deliver the finish, to the spine. Strike three, Jack was out.

&& Let the flames begin, oh glory. Or was he? Jaws that seemed to be made of steel clamped onto him, curling round his bent nape. Maw flicked open, shrieking scream tearing through his throat as life’s crimson liquid seeped gingerly –at first- from the gash. Flints dug into the ice, as his thoughts hurdled into vertigo. Quickly, he had to think, for with each passing second the strain became worse. If Jack dare move in this spot, the chain that flowed down his back would break like the feeble twig. That was no longer an option. But he had to move, he just couldn’t move to an extent. Bracing himself, tassle flickered in response. Sacrificial Resonance had hit the side of him that did not face the cliff. Yes, that little cliff, but a few feet worth of drop, it beckoned him. Those dozens of teeth just screamed at him, ‘Jack, we’re hungry Jack, feed us… feed us this blood!’ The call would not go unanswered. Hind would move, pushing the bay’s body in a haunch turn towards the cliff. Like a windmill they spun, with such speed that those fangs would have no choice but to remain locked upon their target. Oh, but what was the significance to this petty little move? They were inches from the cliff. With one final grin, the Appaloosa would budge. Gravity would deliver the final step in this pattern, sending the two mighty titans sliding off the side of the cliff. Whether or not the bay had let go of his nape, he would not know. The howling winds bit at him so viciously, coming to that conclusion would be beyond him. However, as he fell, droplets of blood would fleck his pelt, streaming against his soft cheeks. Better yet, the earthen teeth would not be the demise of the appaloosa. On the contrary, Jack would land upon the body of the reaper. The underworld would feast tonight.


&& Word Count – 2,516
&& Attack II
&& Dodge - None
&& Intent – To throw Res into a pit full of rocks, with the weight of another horse on top of him. Sure, Jack will get hurt a bit too, but Res should, in the end, take most of the damage. Plus, how fun will it be to RP? Lol.

Lyrics © Paramore, Post && Character © Jack

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[Ƨhatan]

Ƨacrificial Ʀesonance
We are
We are the shaken
We are the monsters
Underneath your bed

[/b]

There’s a stain on my hand and it’s red,

Tears don’t fall, they crash around me. Ivorn tears, so light, so fragile, the tears of angels, one might say, but what he saw, as he looked through his chocolate orbs, his vision led by that deep, burning fire, that dank, bloody cave, were not the saddened tears of crying angels, but the gladdened tears of laughing demons. Oh, yes, don’t let these tears fool you; they are not of sadness, of a broken heart, of pity or of depression; no, these are the tears of mirth, of a loud, raucous laughter, uncontrolled and unstoppable, the tears shed from demons in their purest joy as they laughed and laughed, watching the scene beneath them as though it were nothing more than a movie. They were the harbingers of death, taking pure joy in the bloodbath about to begin, for to them, there was no sadness in death, no mourning for lost souls; no, they were familiar with the realm of death, these demons, they knew Hades on a first-name basis, reveled in his land of the dead, swam in the river Styx, bathed themselves in its hateful waters, and shed its droplets of malice throughout the world to bring more death, to feed that hatred which they so loved. No, they were never the ones pouring their eyes out at funerals; no, they were the owners of that laughter which no one chooses to let themselves hear, that laughter which everyone passes off as their imagination, for, surely, none would take enjoyment out of death? Oh, but these demons did, and now they laughed and laughed and laughed, watching with glee as their closest living pal, their Call to Sacrifice, set his blood-lusting sights upon another victim, and enjoying every bit of hate which passed between these two equines. Oh, yes, they knew Resonance quite well, he was an old friend of theirs; no other had sent so many lovely little victims for them to take to their master. Perhaps he did not know them, but they were very well aware of him. And for so many years had they watched and watched and watched as lamb after lamb was led to the altar, without fuss or fight or attempt to save itself, as horse after horse was slaughtered without even moving. And now, here, their pretty little bringer of death faced his first true enemy, and oh what a happy day it was for the demons. They had so longed for him to join their ranks, perhaps today would be the day, as he faced his first real opponent. Are you ready, Ressy? Are you ready for your death? We come for you, as you come for Jack. Don’t you wish to meet us? We look forward to seeing you soon, Ressy.

On and on they called to their Call to Sacrifice, the words coming out through fits of laughter, as the ivorn tears they shed came down upon the two horses. But not a word of this made it to the stallion’s mortal ears. He saw not the demons where they were on the jagged rocks above him, rolling about on the treacherous earth, shedding tears of joy, tears which fell upon the earth as bringers of death, flakes of beautiful, deadly snow. So many looked upon the white fluff as a beautiful, but harmless thing, but Resonance knew differently. Not because he had seen the snow take a life, but because the Call, that voice within his soul, told him so. His eyes saw things others did not, not because they were incapable of seeing such things, but because they chose not to see such things. He looked upon the world with the haze of bloodlust, that deathly tint to his sight revealing things as deadly which others saw as harmless. A harmless rabbit to one was the catalyst of a deadly mountain lion to him, the bringer of death by mere association as food for the predator, the very fuel that allowed it to kill. A harmless pup was a soon-to-be killer. A foal would grow up to murder. A tree could crush a horse. Water could drown one, could fuel any number of other bringers of death. And snow? Snow wrapped horses in the clutches of death, chilled their bodies, prepared them, body and soul, for death, made them wish for that end. Yes, these beautiful bringers of death were kin to him as all killers were.

But he feared not these demon tears, for they would not take him today; no, for Jack was the lamb today, and not him; of this he was sure of. Upon his pelt, warmed as it was by action and that raging fire within his soul, ice turned to water, the bringer of life which fueled the bringers of death and, because of that, was, in and of itself, a bringer of death. Sweat upon his chocolate pelt mixed and blended with the melting snow that caressed his bodice, but he paid no mind to either. These bringers of death came not for him today; they would not dare target their kin, and he would not target them. No, the Call to Sacrifice had other worries, had another target, and would not let himself and his twisted mind stray from the topic at hand: the death, the glorious, beautiful, famed sacrifice of Jack. Feel that, Jacky? That caress, that cooling touch? Death knows you now, Jacky, and has you in her clutches. She will not let you go, Jacky. Are you ready, Jacky? His mind repeated the banter, a banter which would not leave the dark caverns of his crania, would not reach the ears of the one it was aimed at, much the same as the calls of the demons reached not the ears of the stallion who was the subject of their words. Such calls were never destined to reach the ears of the subject, for it would be unfair for one to know when their own demise was coming, now wouldn’t it? Let them wallow in fear and worry, or go about blissfully unaware; it makes things all the more fun.

The taste of death was such a sweet thing, one which he was oh so familiar with, one which he never grew tired of, one which he longed for, which his entire body and all of his darkened, twisted soul yearned for with each passing beat of his heart. The taste of death on the air was what fueled him, teased his senses and caused the demand within him to be all that stronger. It was that demand, that burning desire which he could not fight nor would he try to fight, that fueled the strength of his attack, which caused his ivories to latch onto the flesh of the other stallion when his bodice barreled down upon the appaloosa. The bloodlust had passed momentarily since he had lost his sight and senses to it moments before, and he could taste the sweet tang of blood upon his tongue and within his maw, could feel it upon his crushing ivories. He felt the fire within him roar in pleasure as the blood was spilled upon the ice and the tears of the demons, as the crimsons leaked into his maw, his teeth clenched down upon the flesh of his lamb; the fire had enjoyed that, it reveled in the fuel, celebrated the throwing of this new kind of wood into its blazes; yes, it had enjoyed that, and so had he. Resonance felt that roar of elated joy within him, a roar which he would have mirrored had not his teeth been clenched and sunk so deep within the flesh of the other stallion, but that did not mean he did not feel the same pure joy of the demons upon the cliff side at the oncoming death. The cackle in the air again did not touch upon the chocolate harks of the bay stallion, but the demons roared with the same elation as that fire within him. Blood, sweet, sweet blood. Yes, Ressy, good, Ressy; spread his blood across the canyon floor, spill it until your heart is content. Honor the god of death and yourself by shedding his crimsons upon our tears, and when we come for your dying soul, you will be treated well by our hands of death. The calls were filled with glee, but the only glee which Resonance felt was his own, and that of the fire’s; still, the demons of death were unknown to him, but they would have served only as a distraction, one which he could not have, lest he become the lamb today.

That whispered call within his soul, that chanting of Jack, Jack, Jack, which fueled the fires of bloodlust and urged him to kill this appaloosa, demanded death of him, grew into a deafening roar to make itself heard over the fires of the bloodlust. He must kill, he must shed blood and add one more tally to the score of this canyon, send one more pitiful soul into the void; and kill he would, for he followed not only the demands and desires of the Call to Sacrifice and that burning fire of bloodlust, but his own desires as well. Sacrificial Resonance was his name, and killing was his game. Indeed, that was all that killing was to him: a game. He cared not for the lives of others, of where their souls went once he evicted them violently from their host of flesh and blood; all he cared for was to satisfy that desire to end lives, shed blood, and, for a few moments each time, to become a predator. His was the heart and soul of a killer, more suited to wolf or hawk or cougar than to horse, but he, too, could become the stalking predator, the calculating killer, ripping at vein and eyes and throat to bring down his prey. And, though eat the meat he could not, he could still feast upon the thrill of death, and dance that dance of death to bring himself more strength. Each passing kill, each soul to his tally, gave him strength; that was how he saw it, and believed it so strongly that his will to kill was insatiable. And today it commanded him to kill.

Oh my God, am I losing it?

His attention turned to his victim, his eyes guided by the bloodlust to seek out what was happening, to bring him about from his lust of death, his glee over the already shed blood which spilled upon his ebonite velveteen maw and dropped upon the ground, feeding the thirst of these death-loving lands. His bloodlust told him more was to be done, spoke into the inner ears of his soul with words of the still-beating heart of the stallion whose throat he held in his grasp. The voice told him to kill, to end that infuriating pulse, told him it was not over yet, to cease his celebrating until that pulse was gone, until he could dance to naught but the crackle of the fire inside. Then, he could celebrate until his heart was content; now, however, there was work to do. This was no traditional sacrifice; in killing to honor himself and not his father, he no longer had his father’s order which made his lambs stand still and await their end without struggle or fight, and without that order, this stallion would not allow his life to end without battling. Never before had one dared to challenge the Call to Sacrifice, to challenge his will and battle for their lives once he had marked them, but here, now, this stallion challenged him, defied his choice, chose to struggle for his death. The fury urged him on, and his maw tightened of its own accord, as though he sought to grind together his blunt ivories without recalling the fact they were set so deep into the flesh of another. How dare this upstart challenge him? How dare this pathetic little stallion think he had a choice in the matter? The rage was that of the fire, and in it he felt a comforting fizz beneath his pelt, massaging his muscles, giving them strength. He would win this, and perform another sacrifice, mark another soul to his tally, and this time all the honor would be his.

Beneath his hold the stallion began to struggle at last; so still he had held for so many heart beats now, but Resonance had prepared himself before the battle, and the bloodlust reminded him now; he knew that sooner or later, once the paralysis of fear melted from this stallion, nothing would hold him still. Muscles rippled beneath the stallion’s chocolate pelt, tensing under than comforting fizz of that raging fire within him. Now hold still, Jacky, it’ll make this so much more easier on you. But Jacky did not hold still. Resonance felt the smaller stallion heave against his oppressor, and his ivorn flints dug into the ice and into the fallen tears of the demons, smearing into the wintry white the already spilled blood as he struggled to hold the appaloosa stallion still, to make him stop his struggle, to impose his will upon him and make him simply await his death as the others had. But this stallion refused, not out loud, but in his actions, as he gingerly maneuvered himself, trying not to tear the wound on his neck any deeper. This stallion was no slave to instinct, he did not throw himself away from his attacker, he did not tear his wound deeper in a failed attempt to escape as so many would. No, he knew better than to rip himself free of his opponents unyielding grip. Again and again blood-stained ivorn flints tore against the ice of the ground, searching for purchase, for traction, hunting for the advantage as his bulk was shoved by the other stallion. But Resonance had only just completed a charge, his hooves were not set in the ice in good foot-holds as the flints of this stallion, who had not moved since the battle’s beginning, were. He could not compete with this stallion’s hold on the ground below, and he felt himself moving against his will. The fire raged within him, spurring him on, fueling his muscles. It demanded that he fight it, that he not let himself be shoved around so easily, but only so much could be done. Again and again and again the stallion sought refuge from the constant pressure his enemy applied against his bodice, but no such refuge could be found.

The cackle of the demons upon the cliff rung out through the air, silent though it was to the ears of the equine. Yes, Ressy, fight with all your might. Strain yourself, use those pretty muscles of yours. Fight, fight, fight, Ressy, and feed that hatred within you. Feed us with your anger, your lust to kill, and we’ll treat you real nice on the other side. Their banter continued, their mirth-filled tears of laughter spilling from their eyes as they continued their full enjoyment of the scene beneath them, as they watched with compete glee as their pretty little Call to Sacrifice struggled for his life. They saw each move, they knew what was fast approaching their glorious little death bringer, they knew the intentions of this little lamb their call had targeted. Watch your step, Ressy. It’s a long ways down, Ressy. Those rocks look sharp, Ressy. Better be careful, Ressy. On and on they called their warnings, each word sparking more and more laughter as their tears fell faster and in greater quantity, the layer of snow that built upon the ice steadily thickening as the flakes of deathly snow continued to fall from their eyes. But their warning fell upon deaf ears, for Resonance heard not their words, and on and on he struggled. His muscles screamed against the effort of battling his opponent, and the moments seemed to stretch onwards forever, though only heartbeats of time had passed since his opponent first began to move. He felt the final heave against his bodice, battled as hard as he could, but deep down he knew, it was no hope. No matter how hard he battled, how much that bloodlust fire roared, how much the voice spoke, he was losing.

Gravity was a cruel bringer of death the same as them all, but more vicious for the lack of notice. No one ever thought gravity responsible for any deaths; those deaths were attributed to other things. The one who shoved the screaming maiden off the cliff and into the heaving waters beneath wherein waited the ravenous sea monster, the spiteful earth which gave way beneath the weight of the foolish victim, or to the weight of the world which had proved too much for the kamikaze who sent themselves flying from the cliff onto the rocks far below, ending their own lives in the desperate quest for freedom. But no such end could have happened at all had not gravity been present, and for that lack of notice, for that lack of respect and honor which none would spare him, he gathered up every victim within his reach and hurled them to the ground or the seas or the rocks beneath, ending their lives every time he could. Gravity now set his sights upon his kin, a fellow bringer of death who earned honor which he did not. In spite, he grabbed the bay stallion in his unyielding, pitiless clutches and hurled him into the pit beneath his hooves, taking as an extra prize the stallion who had shoved him into gravity’s grasps. Gravity roared into the world that was unheard by the equines, and his roar of pleasure drowned out the laughter of the demons as both horses fell to what all present hoped would be their death. But what was this? A pulse, that steady thud-thud…thud-thud…thud-thud of a beating heart. And there, in the background, a second heart echoed the call. Gravity roared his displeasure at the still-living stallions who were now beyond his reach, but the demons roared with laughter, bursting with glee that the bloodbath would continue to provide them with the entertainment they so hoped and sought for.

I don’t wanna feel,

Within his bodice the fire raged and roared in pain and displeasure, a call which mirrored the unheard screams of gravity, but even the fire within his own body went unheard by the bay stallion; the screams of his body were far louder and more shrill, and he heard only the sounds of his body as the pain slashed through him. His ivories freed themselves from the flesh of the other stallion, where they had remained throughout the fall as the stallion’s entire body had gone tense when the fall began, his jaw locking as though held by steel. Only now did his body, led by the ropes of reflex, allow his bloodied teeth to part with the flesh of his enemy, the pain in his jaw, so tense for so long, excruciating as it parted with a forceful scream of pain that racked his entire body, responding the searing pain which burned through his body, more powerful than the raging flame within his soul. The pain was everywhere at once, stabbing and throbbing and screaming through his flesh, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. It was all he knew, and he could find no difference between where one wound ended and another began. All he knew was that screaming pain. Within his crania his chocolate orbs were wild, the whites showing in pain and fear. Never before had he been attacked at all, and now, so viciously, the very earth tried to swallow him up, tearing and ripping with fangs of earth. The lust to kill had left him; all he wanted was for the pain to stop, to leave him alone, to just end. He just wanted it all to be over, for the pain to flee his form as swiftly as that burning desire had; he wanted an end to everything at once, he would do anything to get rid of the pain. His entire body and soul cried out for death, just to free himself from the grips of the pain. Above him, the demons cackled and danced and their tears continued to fall, touching his body, cooling his pelt, preparing him for death. That’s the spirit, Ressy. Call to us, Ressy, show us the way to that soul of yours so we may lead it to where you won’t feel this pain any more. We’ll make it stop, Ressy. Just let it end, Ressy. Just give up, Ressy. Even if his ears were not deafened to the voices of the demons, he would not have heard them for the pounding of his own frantic heart, the blood in his ears, and the never ending pain.

I don’t wanna see,

Within him the fire raged and raged, roaring as loudly as it could, its flames spreading throughout his body, seeking control over the wayward stallion. The voice from that bloody, dank cave within his soul screamed in his ears. Kill him! Jack did this to you! End him for it! Send him screaming to the void for daring to mar your perfect form! For challenging your authority! Kill Jack! The shrill calls repeated themselves again and again within him, reverberated and echoing from deep within his soul. The Call tried with all its might to take control of him, the bloodlust fury raging within him, seeking the same. And yet, still, all that he knew was the pain. It taught him how to breathe, how to feel, how to move; it took control of his body, and he could do nothing but pray it would end, that something would make it all stop. But it wasn’t getting any better, wasn’t subsiding or ending, and still the pain controlled him. He lay motionless, bloodied and beaten, until at last the shrill voice broke through the screams of the pain. If you kill him it will end! His body surged, his muscles reacting to the promise. He would do anything to make it end. Kill him and the pain will stop. Kill him. Kill Jack and your pain will end! Resonance writhed against the clutches of the earth’s hungry mouth, his daggers flying out blindly. He could feel the weight of the other stallion upon him, pushing him into the rocks, adding to his pain, and with the hate the bloodlust took hold of his form. If he killed him it would all be better, he just had to end this stallion’s life, that was it. The bloodlust raged within him, the voice promised again and again the pain would end with Jack’s death. And his muscles screamed to life.

Bloodstained ivorn daggers flew towards the other stallion, three of his legs flying with force again and again towards the weight which imprisoned him in this world of pain. He willed his forth to join the others, but pain stabbed through him at the movement, and it fell still, though his others shot out with all the force he had within. The bloodlust roared its pleasure, the voice shouted its celebration. Yes! That’s it! Pummel him to death! Make him wish for death so that his own pain will be ended! Make him suffer! The demands fueled him, the unstoppable desire to kill and this new desire to make the pain stop fueled his powerful limbs as he struck out toward his enemy again and again. Through pain and bloodlust and the words of the Call, he knew not if he even hit the other stallion, but he tried with all his might, striking with all the strength he could muster, the kicks becoming weaker and weaker with each attempted strike. At last his legs halted their movement, his broad chest heaving against the effort, his entire body screaming with pain which overwhelmed the bloodlust and the voice within him once more. Why hadn’t it stopped? Why wasn’t the pain gone? Why wouldn’t it go away? The voice had promised! It had promised! It had lied! The pain still cut his form, raced through his body the same as his pouring crimsons, and it had not stopped with his attack. Was Jack dead? He had to be! But the pain hadn’t stopped, and the voice had said it would. Had he failed? Had his efforts been in vain? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. The pain was all he knew. Again, it gripped him, body and soul, filled his mind, and dragged him away from the present so that he didn’t know if he had even wounded that other stallion or not.

Above him, upon the treacherous sides of the canyon walls, the demons continued to cackle, calling to him to join them in the world of Hades, to swim with them in the River Styx, to just let go, let them take hold of his soul and lead him to where the pain would end. Their laughter still rang out, tears of mirth falling from their gleeful eyes, but Res was blind and deaf to it all. He merely waited, his body heaving for air, his soul clinging to the promise the voice had made, that the pain would end soon. He just had to wait, wait for Jack to die. Because he would die; his muddled mind would not let him believe otherwise. His arrogance would not let him believe that he could be beaten. He, Sacrificial Resonance, the Call to Sacrifice, the horse with the heart and soul of a predator who had led lamb after lamb to their death; he would not believe he would die, could not believe he would die. The call still called the name of a lamb, and as long as he had a victim, he believed he would live. His body writhed, but he could not summon the strength to kick any more, and lay panting, waiting for the pain to end, one way or another.

Hand of Blood.

_{Attacks: I I
Dodges: None allowed.
Attack Intended: Res is pretty much just writhing about in the pit beneath Jack and kicking with as much force as he can muster, attempting to pummel Jack, albeit quite blindly and without a speck of aim.
Damage Taken: His right hind leg is broken, there’s a large gash on his right side near that leg, another bad gash on the right side of his neck near his shoulder, and several other, smaller cuts on his face, legs, and side, along with some bad bruising and a cracked rib.}

Ɔall Ʈo Ƨacrifice
We are
We are mistaken
We are the voices
Inside your head

_{Word Count: 4,349 ((Wow, who knew I had it in me, eh? xD))
Lyrics © Matchbook Romance, Bullet for my Valentine
Character and Post © Shatan}[/size]