by Zarkenis Ultima » Mon May 09, 2011 5:43 pm
by Inkarzikan » Mon May 09, 2011 5:54 pm
by Malshan » Mon May 09, 2011 5:59 pm
"Sarcasm works so much better when you can look down your fire-breathing nose at someone." -Callistan Sairias
by The Last Tribe » Mon May 09, 2011 6:21 pm
by NWO-ONE » Mon May 09, 2011 6:30 pm
by Shnercropolis » Mon May 09, 2011 6:31 pm
by The Inritus Extraho » Mon May 09, 2011 6:37 pm
by Zarkenis Ultima » Mon May 09, 2011 8:32 pm
by The Inritus Extraho » Mon May 09, 2011 8:37 pm
by Zarkenis Ultima » Mon May 09, 2011 9:02 pm
by Ceannairceach » Mon May 09, 2011 9:08 pm
by The Inritus Extraho » Mon May 09, 2011 9:09 pm
by Zarkenis Ultima » Mon May 09, 2011 9:15 pm
by Nightkill the Emperor » Mon May 09, 2011 9:34 pm
Ceannairceach wrote:The Underworld,
Beneath the Equator
A woman--if one could name such a thing with a gender--sat on a three-legged wooden stool, her hands guiding a brush over a canvas. Her skin was a light shade of fuchsia, and her ears pointed. From her temples, sprouting up through her pale crimson hair, grew small horns, pyramids on her otherwise smooth forehead. Her eyes were grayish-green, and catlike; turned sideways, with the pupils being slits. She truly looked like she belonged here, in the underworld below the feet of the other gods to inhabit Aether.
Ah yes, the Underworld. A jagged, broken place that was hotter than anywhere else on Aether. Lava poured into a sea of magma below this goddesses feet, a large pool of it simply waiting to rise one day, or cool to from crystalline rocks. All over, stalagmites and stalactites hung and rose, occasionally touching to form pillars of stone. Somewhere, a demon howled, and then the sound of tearing flesh and flapping wings sounded. The goddess turned her head momentarily, but resumed her work quickly, ignoring the rather normal sound in her domain.
This goddess, this thing, was Sterling, the goddess of the Underworld, vengeance and lust.
Looking closely at her, one could tell all of these things were true. As described, she appeared to be demonic, but was also rather womanly and feminine, her black, clingy catsuit matching her form, minus the back and left arm, where parts of it where missing; torn off, it appeared, by sharp claws. In fact, the suit was held together by various pieces of leather meeting at rings, holding it up like suspenders. A rather odd clothing choice, to almost anyone's eyes. Vengeance emulated from her cold, calculating stare, and from her unmoving expression. Had she spoken then, one would hear the lust and vengeance in her voice; desire one moment, want for her own selfish justice the next.
Her catlike eyes shifted over her canvas, and with a final stroke over her brush, she seemed satisfied. On the canvas was, in a crimson paint that looked oddly like the lifeblood of some animal or another, a portrait of a cottage, flames billowing out from atop it and a small human figure standing distantly from it, watching. She backed up somewhat to admire it when, suddenly, a rock fell from the ceiling.
The rock, with dust following it in a truly beautiful manner, hit the painting, creating a crater in the middle of the cottage. The dust settled all over the wet paint, ruining it. With a horrible look of disdain on her face, she threw the canvas into the magma below her, watching bitterly as it burned instantly on contact. For, you see, Sterling rather disliked the Underworld. Yes, it had its charms and the beasts were delightful companions, but it was rather horrible to live quite literally under ones equals. It made the goddess quite bitter at times, at best, and at worst, vengeful. She'd seek out any weak god or animal she could and simply torment it beyond believe; a fair revenge for her horrible, almost intolerable existence below the earth of Aether.
But, she had no time to think of such things; her mouth began, all of the sudden, to dry up, and her eyes burn like the magma itself. These symptoms became progressively worse, and realizing what was occurring, Sterling grabbed a vial from her belt. Inside was the rather horrible mixture of her own, salty tears and the blood of a, preferably young, griffon. This was how she managed, like the other gods, to remain alive; through this disgusting mixture, she survived. She could cry any time she wished, through stabbing herself or salting her eyes, but griffons were becoming rarer and rarer on the average plane, and rare even in the Overworld. She had quite a stock, but eventually, it would run out, as the griffons died to feed her quench for their blood. If she could find a way to survive without the elixir, well... It is best not to get one's hopes up.
She lifted the vial to her mouth, removing the stopper and letting the gooey liquid slide down into her mouth. Almost immediately, the effects stopped, and when the last drop was gone, she felt rejuvenated. She could, if she wished, run around the Underworld a dozen times before tiring.
But she didn't wish to.
Instead, she simple tended to the few things she could in the underworld; she viewed a small battle between two tiny demons, flying about the cave eating each others flesh. She inspected her small abode in the Underworld, a hollowed out rock dome made of obsidian, filled with, you guessed it, more rocks. She also saw, across the sea of magma and brawling demons, a flower patch; Quite an odd thing to grow in this hellhole. She had seem some god--Azanal, she believed his name was--picking flowers their from time to time. Why, she never knew; Such an area was filled with demons, the savage beasts that they are, meaning he would have to carve a path through them to pick one. She had considered heading over their, once, to investigate, but she had never--
Before she could even finish the thought, another rock fell, hitting her on the head. She looked up and swore, rubbing the area between her horns, attempting to stop the throbbing pain.
Nat: Night's always in some bizarre state somewhere between "intoxicated enough to kill a hair metal lead singer" and "annoying Mormon missionary sober".
Swith: It's because you're so awesome. God himself refreshes the screen before he types just to see if Nightkill has written anything while he was off somewhere else.
by JuNii » Mon May 09, 2011 9:42 pm
by Ameriganastan » Mon May 09, 2011 9:56 pm
New Nassaru wrote:Ameri's presence is.... quite the force to be reckoned with. When you talk with him about happy MLP stuff, his responses make me feel like i'm getting hit by a train.
Krazakistan wrote:He's the pessimist NS's MLP thread deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll criticize him. Because he can take it. Because he's not our pessimist. He's a voiceful pessimist, an extreme critic of all happy MLP stuff. He's the thread pessimist.
by New Robotalica » Mon May 09, 2011 10:02 pm
by JuNii » Mon May 09, 2011 11:47 pm
by NWO-ONE » Tue May 10, 2011 12:05 am
by 7ARC » Tue May 10, 2011 4:59 am
by JuNii » Tue May 10, 2011 11:18 am
by New Robotalica » Tue May 10, 2011 1:21 pm
by Inkarzikan » Tue May 10, 2011 1:36 pm
by New Robotalica » Tue May 10, 2011 2:06 pm
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