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06-06-2014, 02:05 AM
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Torleik
The beard of glory... Déodat misunderstood: Even if Torleik lost, he would come after this usurper again and again, never letting the younger stallion rest in his stolen position. He would make Déodat’s life utter hell; keep him bleeding and bruised and looking over his shoulder, wondering when the inevitable attack would come next. The dual-horned demon would not abate until he had regained what had been stolen from him, should he fail here. Chunks of half-frozen mud flew like into the air like exploding shrapnel as Torleik charged towards his opponent, each angry purchase of his hooves on the ground squelching in the thick soup of dirt and rain. Wet schlocks smacked like afterthoughts when each hoof pulled away again, energy expended just to move quickly in this terrain. At the desired proximity, the Bloodskald reared and kicked out his front legs, grunting in frustration when he missed the traitor’s face. Déodat’s chest was a much meatier target, not as fragile and brittle as the skull or horn and much less satisfying to pound into. His cold anger took the magic singing in the general’s blood as a consociate, the two working in tandem to drop the temperature in the immediate vicinity, the raindrops beginning to freeze and bite at the combatants’ skin with every impact. A crazed sort of look rolled in Déodat’s eyes, Torleik recognizing the signs of an all-consuming bloodlust. It was a sight he knew well, a feeling he had known well – but no longer. Such a blood-craze in a duel like this was for the young who needed insanity to push them into the realm of success, who lacked skill to best their opponent with fundamentals and precision. Uncontrolled rage made rash decisions, acted before strategy, focused only on the end goal of a crushing victory. Torleik would not let his anger be his undoing. No, he would channel the arctic fury into Déodat’s resounding defeat, and when his opponent lay beaten and broken on the ground, the Bloodskald would put a hoof to his neck and make him beg for mercy. Then he would let his anger rule him in that singular moment of triumph. But such thoughts were for later, as the pressing matter of Déodat’s counterattacks demanded his attention now. A sharp, resounding clack indicated an attempted bite, though Torleik did not feel the damage. The proximity of their bodies did not allow the stockier rabicano to easily dodge his opponent’s long, spiraled hematic horn. The darker stallion jerked his head and body to the right and he gritted his teeth in pain when the tip of the sharp weapon lacerated a jagged line on the left side of his neck. The blood offering his rent flesh submitted to the open air was quickly washed away by the rain - or what remained of it. The moisture that fell from the pregnant clouds above was steadily being transformed into hail and shards of ice as this battle continued, the brunt of the frigid projectiles directed towards the blood bay as much as Torleik thought he could will them. His success was debatable as the ice storm simply continued to pick up strength all around them, seemingly indifferent to the souls present within its radius of impact. A sense of muted alarm broke through the slight haze that covered his mind, Irelyn anxiously swooping down to assess the damage to her bonded and delivering her fear and anger directly into Torleik’s consciousness. No command could be issued to his owl-griffin just yet; he snarled in pain and frustration when Déodat’s body slammed into his, knocking him to the side and pushing the breath out of his lungs for a moment. The rabicano dropped his head to offer a smaller target and steal a few precious seconds to regain the air robbed from him, seeing between the taller stallion’s legs that a white, furry blur was charging towards the both of them. ”Irelyn! Attack!” He had no time to deal with this fool’s pup of a companion! Torleik yanked his hoof up as the hound tried to snipe a bite of flesh, driving it back down towards her bonded’s nearest ankle, wishing to crush the joint beneath his solid, heavier mass. Almost simultaneously, the Bloodskald turned his head in the direction of the blood bay, horns already lowered, and snapped his head upwards. He desired to catch Déodat under the chin and pierce where jaw and neck became one, a vascular, dangerous area to injure. A screech told his ears that Irelyn was obeying, though he could not see her swooping down towards the white pup, front talons extended with desire to dig into the hound’s soft body. She would hopefully keep the creature occupied while he dealt with its larger bond-mate. "talk talk talk" -------------------------------------------------- [[WC: 795 | (2/4) Torleik uses his active magic to create a slowly building storm of hail/icy sleet. He attempts to stomp on the ankle of one of Deo's forelegs and then headbutt Deo's throat/jaw with his horns from beneath. Irelyn tries to swoop down and attack Odette to keep the hound occupied and away from the battle.]] |
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Pixel by: Tamme :D
Pixel by: Tamme :D
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