The flame prince sauntered through the woods east of the Dreamer's Col, his paws stirring up ash from the fire that had ravaged this place two seasons ago. At six months old, curiosity fueled his every step; his eyes wide with wonder as he imagined the rest of the pack in these woods.. as they would have been before his birth. The blight had caused Armada to switch territories, but Balrog now wondered if these woods were safe. He approached a blackened skeleton of a tree looming in the middle of the forest, though the rest of the woods stood oddly untouched in the devastation. It's bark was warped, twisted like something out of a nightmare, and strange, brittle leaves stubbornly clung to it's limbs; was it regrowing?

The young wolf tilted his head, obsidian eyes glinting as he studied it. Questions swirled in his mind - did this action of blazing this tree stop the blight entirely, or was it still dangerous? Why had this tree survived if set aflame? He stepped closer, eager to uncover its secrets, though his heart raced a bit faster in his chest.

"Balrog"

 

 

Ludovic..

She’d jolt awake, deep slumbers torn away by the bewails and aches of crooking boughs swaying against each other like constricting boas, hummingbird foliages daring to swallow the earth whole in one, chartreuse bite.

Their bass olive, malachite tendrils seemed to bravingly cavort agin one another like corrival’s on a theatre of war, both melding and waning. A hallucination, perhaps a nightmare, it would thus become a nugatory afterthought, for now. Lebraid was an infernal woman, laved in mossy starches and graveyard minerals, mimicking that of a ghostly, eidolon cacodemon beget from purgatory. An ear would flick, orthochromatic nebula’s blinking against the sunlit pockets —— but it was the stench of a boy that pervaded greatly —— who, pray tell, did she owe this stark displeasure? A low, groggy thrum brayed from the pits of her gut, therein rising from where she lay atop the pistachio, june-bud and tealish pasture, intentful on one thing; intel, a vital asset she continued to procure. Of course, it didn’t take long to find a dire, burnt by a moonless night, yet listrated in glosses of supernova, lava-like diacritics, fire breathing and vivid -- still, she couldn’t care less for aesthetics. Ahead, howbeit, sat a harrowing tree, gnarled in charred bark and sews of regrowth. She stared for but a moment, yet that wintry, soulless, calculative gaze soon fell upon the swarthy, aureate-hued wolf with a deadpan stare.

“And you are,” She began, vocals gruff and chasmic, “Who, exactly?” It was a question, yes, more or less, but who’s to say otherwise? Lebraid was no dunce, and she wouldn’t be seen as one, either.

Text | "Speech" | Skill   

code by Cloudy

The youth's ears flicked as the voice cut through the uneasy quiet, his obsidian gaze shifting to the source. The stranger stood there, shadowy and moss-clad, her form almost blending with their surroundings. Her words, sharp and gruff, carried no warmth, but they did not faze him. His father could be cold and just as serious at times, it did not mean he was a danger to him. He straightened himself up properly, a fire dancing in his oilslick gaze.

"I am Balrog," he replied evenly, his tone carrying more weight than one might expect from a six-month-old. "Prince of Armada." He motioned toward the once blighted tree with a nod. "I did not mean to disturb you, I am out here studying it. The fire did not leave much to study, however..." His gaze lingered on the woman, cautious but curious. "And you are?" he asked, mirroring her tone, though his voice held a hint of youthfulness in comparison.

"Balrog"

 

 

Balrog, so it seemed, and a prince, no less; here, the rubric may possess anchorage, but in the foregone, such was never the case.

It was a hollow plea, really.

Low, pursy breaths galumphed past aqueous lips, devious eyes waning upon every ace of the boy’s profile, before sermonising stagnancy as they bore into those melanoid orbs. The coalesce of raven and lambent-fire stood out against this rich, spring-sage, olivine boscage —— albeit the calcine oak that lay in its epicentre —— she’d listen, wondering if this ‘Armada’ was a place of sanctum, battalions, dunces, or mayhap corsairs that armoured no aegis of morality.

So, what of it?

She didn’t trust so easily, of course.

Pallid, lichen hackles fizzled with dominancy like a wight risen from its crypt -- see, she wasn’t one to pass an opportunity in getting exactly what she wanted. If that wasn’t obvious, then she’d make it be so. “Lebraid,” The word jarred in a ruinous, augural bellow, feeling the warmth of autumn’s sunglow buss against her mossbed mass, “Tell me more of this.. Armada.” A gesture, a yen, one would never truly know, and that was the malefic imperfection of a capricious hellhound, weaponised by a parabolic, ironclad skin untrodden at its best, and maniacal at its worst. There was no telling what was to come next; she didn’t like to meddle in fatuous affairs or puerile conversations, so expectations weighed heavy in comparison. To be afeared, it wasn’t all that hard, the wolf therein stepping forth a few feet, leaden, conscious -- fern and algae tints squelched undertoe, where seafoam foliages furled in the seam of jaded sprouts. Crown somewhat crooked, the naevus upon her chest clovered a tiger’s dander, yet bothered her none.

Text | "Speech" | Skill   

code by Cloudy

The flame prince met her sharp gaze, the weight of her presence pressing down on him like a stormcloud. Despite her size and the crackling dominance she exuded, the young wolf did not shrink. Instead, his head tilted slightly to mirror her own, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

"The Armada," he began, his voice steady, though youth left it with an undertone of pride. "It is strength. Family. We used to occupy these woods, but moved after the blight." He gestured at the charred surroundings with his paw. "But we don't run anymore, our home is stronger now. Fortified."

He studied her closely, a flicker of something between curiosity and challenge in his gaze. "Why are you so curious? Thinking of paying a visit?" His flame point tail swayed behind him, not threatening, but poised, testing her intentions.

"Balrog"

 

 

Their imitating gestures were quickly detested, a foreboding tenor wildly expunging from the lemongrass, boneyard hellion’s boreal and ironclad demeanour. She didn’t appreciate the boy’s vainglorious play, yet he obliged in giving her what she wanted nonetheless -- fortitude and family, intrinsic nobilities -- my, how mundane. Is that all they endeavoured to tradition, howbeit? Were they not crusaders, or perhaps rulers that bled neurosis by taking what whatever they wanted?

Rightfully, of course.

In truth, the Armada sounded quite nondescript, yet mentions of a blight had ears pirouetting; had there been a battle, or better yet, a war?

Charred barks weathered against the test of time, where fresh, seaweed-green verdure’s scarcely burgeoned overtop. Lebraid’s deadpan stare did not haver, daring to pierce Balrog’s very soul if it be possible —— they spoke of fortification, though expressions remained impassive, for now. Were they a kingdom of sorts? It truly begged the question, nebulose memories of the foregone whisking into actuality for but a moment, expelling a low, granular rumble to cannon from the depths of her gorge, raw and demoniacal. A bit brash, weren’t they? Albeit, it milled a glister of intent in those achromatic orbs for but a fleeting moment, skin twitching, nerves aching, unsure if they knew the perils of a mentally unstable, unpredictable wraith. “And if I did,” The woman began, timbres eerily ghostlike as papery ropes of slaver festooned from growing cuspids, “What are you going to do?” It wasn’t a commination, but rather an enticement, a means to get him to tell her more, if that so be the case. Autumn’s crisp sails jostled her despotic jacket, and a cold, lumbering breath tumbled past moonless lips, daring the child to choose injudiciously.

Text | "Speech" | Skill   

code by Cloudy

The flame prince's eyes blinked slowly, his obsidian gaze steady and unreadable as he regarded the woman. Her words, laced with challenge and veiled menace, rolled over him like water off a stone. He tilted his head slightly, a small, nonchalant shrug rolling over his shoulders.

"If you did," he said evenly, his tone calm, almost dismissive, "I suppose you'd find out what the Armada is made of. But, I don't think you are ready to find out. Not yet. I do not think that is why you are here talking to me today."

He glanced back at the blighted tree, his attention seemingly drifting. "So, what do you really want?" His thick tail swayed idly, his calm demeanor unwavering as if her presence barely registered as a threat.

"Balrog"