Blind Date - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +---- Forum: Battle Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=64) +---- Thread: Blind Date (/showthread.php?tid=13099) |
||
Blind Date - Morir - 03-08-2014
RE: Blind Date - Confutatis - 03-16-2014 The raven prince smells of dry leaves and pine, the fatal embrace of winter; it is a pleasantly eerie musk, an aroma far more delectable than the demon daughter's own rich stench of decay and rot, crumbling soil and blood. She drinks it in lustily, eyes rolling back to her skull, a shiver crawling down her spine and wracking her back, drunk on the gentle scrub of his teeth on her haunches, meandering at idle pace over the curve of her ass... when was the last time she had ivories pressed so lovingly against her scars, such soft kisses to ease an old woman's bruises? Friendship was not befitting for a queen, unless it was her king's companionship, or so the harlot had always thought- is it so surprising that Confutatis is lulled into a profound sense of security and peace of mind when mutual groomed for the first time in what may be years? Beguiled by sadistic charms, she is unaware of the way his mouth pauses at work momentarily; and then ivories snap down, gripping at charcoal flesh. With a shrill squeal of indignation, the mare lashes out a hind leg in warning, popping up her hindquarters, before she remembers to not go easy, to not give the blind boy special exceptions and allowances- oh and he was wrong if he thought she would take pity on the unicorn with his hollow sockets and gristly face. Confutatis snaps out with her acidic maw at his hindquarters, but they are not there, for the Duke had pulled away; instead she finds herself blinded by a face-full of dark, stinging hair. Yet whereas her tail is lacking in nerves, his is filled with meat and blood vessels, being leonine; so she bites down, hoping to grab at the decadent whip with her mouth of poison. And instead of relenting, bemoaning the first injury he puts on her weathered skin, she then pivots around her hindquarters- freeing his tail should she be successful in that regard- feeling his fangs tear free of her haunches. The fresh wound on her haunches give a painful sting, a furious twinge as she transfers her weight onto her hind legs, but the wolf ignores it with a locked jaw and narrowed eyes. It is a solid, deep albeit small chunk out of her ass, but what does it matter? Still she has the curves of a woman grown and the scars of a warlord proud. Hooves slither over snow as the demon daughter cowkicks at his right foreleg, aiming towards the joint. She imagines with a slight tingle of delight the crunch of bones beneath her hooves (how would he like that, being crippled in his legs as well as eyes?) As she moves, she utters another squawk of agony- the vertebrae of her beloved armor squelches in deeper to her spine at the exercise, beads of blood bursting and oozing from the wounds she inflicts herself; it is excruciating, feeling it weld to flesh- but it is also a reminder that she should use it. Thus, her armor materializes into being. One must recognize no matter their allegiance or alliance, they were still fighting one another, and she did not want to lose to this bat-blind crow. Too many times she had been embarrassed by abysmal fighting performances in Helovia; once, she had been defeated by a medic, another by a sluttish unicorn, and she would not add to this list of accomplishments by being outplayed by sightless lordling, no matter his intelligence. It simmers and surges beneath her skin, the threat of ruin and rot, infection and disease prepared to seethe out from her pores and into his skin, to rob Morir the thrice-crowned of life and whatever remnants of laughter he may hide. For a moment, she withholds the magic, containing it inside her pelt black as sin, before she exhales and lets it slither free, contemptuous and vile, hungry for that moon-light striped coat. Let it bloom on his hide, flower and take seed- rings of decay, mottled camouflage of withering skin, depreciating and degrading moment by moment; would he find respect for her then, when his coat began to strip from bone and sinew, exposing barren red muscle to the freezing cold that burned in her lungs and smoked in her nostrils? Would he realize her strength only when his very essence began to slough from frigid skeleton? What would he be when he lay upon the soil, decomposing, looking up at her? He would not be the first to die at her hands. War was a bloody business. But this is not war, she reminds herself. This is a vicious playfight- we save our strength for the future, when the Regime rules Helovia and is the only thing left. 1/4 WC: 800 RE: Blind Date - Morir - 03-18-2014
RE: Blind Date - Confutatis - 03-19-2014 Teeth close down on nothingness as she misses her mark; spittle soars from her rabid mouth, arcing with poisonous grace through the sky, droplets of bubbling acid that scorch and sting the earth. There is a ringing of disappointment in her skull; her companion's ocean, tides of nondescript gray and dull blues, echoes the sentiment of chagrin, pulsing undercurrent to the spires of stone and perilous crags that is her own wily and wicked head. She does not think with words, she thinks with flashes of emotions scudding across her nightmarish skies and lightning that touches down to the barren land; she lashes the ocean into a frenzy, and his sea roars back, pounding against her cranium unhindered and without halt. As the wolf goes to turn, the vertebrae of her beloved armor grinds deeper into her spine, and the pain, the agony, damns her. Scarlet blood bubbles up to burst along the stained bones as the yellowed backbone chafes and scrapes open partially healed scabs, eroding ever deeper into her spine- it did this, on occasion, a terrible melting of cartilage to flesh, but it rarely did so in acts of battle. Along the entirety of her obsidian back, the wound weeps crimson tears, which congeal and lather, ashen maroon, around the frayed edges of her skin. It was torment and torture, the feel of bone piercing through twists of red muscle and charcoal flesh; her jaws crunch so tightly together she hears an ominous cracking to one of her teeth as she bites down on a shriek. Next to this pain, the wound on her haunches is barely worth being called an affliction. Even as she turns on her hindquarters, the injury Morir inflicted mordant and stinging, it is little compared to her armor fusing to meat and brawn. Confutatis is not one for pity; she moves, bull-headed, through the pain, scorning sorrow and apathetic melancholy. For every moment of blood and bruising she has to endure, she will force it back onto her enemy, repay it hundredfold and bring them crashing to their knees. When they begged for mercy, she would not give it; when they begged for death, she would crush their skulls and shatter their bones, the final act of consolation for the wounded and persecuted. She was the Queen, the demon daughter; she would not allow herself to go unpracticed in the savage arts of battle, nor her comrades. To succeed in their cause and purpose, they must first become one in soul and mind, practice their skills and learn to execute their campaign with confidence. Dark keratins scrape across the joint of his left foreleg; she takes pleasure in the small victory, hoping it is an omen of good will from the gods. An accomplished battle would be good to put under her belt after so many months of cold, dank winter and crowded rooms. As the wolf comes back to all fours, she inhales sharply, the spinal column digging deeper into her back. Clouds of white smoke obscure her vision at her heated exhale; she remembers she must concentrate, that she should plant the seeds of doubt in Morir and she will reap the benefits for his insecurities. Tendrils of sorcery and necromancy seeps out from her, chasing and hounding after the crow without direction, seeking his tender obsidian skin; and her efforts are rewarded. As energy leeches out from her, vitality and spirit used up in summoning the nefarious black magic, she does not need to see to know the results; his heinous screech of pain is a sweet song to her ears. She does not expect him to move so suddenly after the onslaught of rot and ruin; her breath catches in her chest as he charges forward onto the unsuspecting war-daughter, wielding his horns as weaponry. They are so long, those black swords, and the lower two scrape against the fused bone plate protecting her haunches; they sing a horrific tune, procuring a peculiar grinding sound. The armor prevents a puncture wound, but the force behind it will not doubt leave a pretty old bruising. Not willing to risk those dreaded crowns catching at the unprotected meat on her stomach or upper legs, Confutatis begins to pull away to the left. Morir catapults on, teeth seeking the touch of her flesh, and even despite her moving away, the pounding of her hooves on frozen snow, his teeth just catch on her neck (horns luckily going clear over her crest) grating down to open a shallow scrape which stings in the cool air. In retaliation, she puts her weight forward and tries to shove into him, hopefully to knock him off-balance, while her poisonous maw opens, aiming to bite down on his lower neck or withers. 2/4 WC: 796 RE: Blind Date - Sevin - 04-25-2014 Status of this spar? @[Morir] @[Confutatis] RE: Blind Date - Official - 05-04-2014 Morir in AA. Default win to Confutatis. 0.5 VP awarded. |