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10-02-2012, 04:25 PM
The faint taste of blood brings the stallion no thrill- he is left with a dissatisfaction as his body swings hopelessly into thin air, and he is all at once resigned to his place in this battle. Birch knows he is a creature against the nature of his kind. No lignea before him has torn flesh with such readiness, broken into belligerence with such ease. His father was a peaceful sort, but how can he model himself after the former Birch when it was his unwillingness to fight that led to his demise? When the kicks come he does not shy away as his mother would have done- he does not stand still to take it as his father did. He has nothing to protect but himself, and even this husk he treats with little care. What is the importance of a body's health when it will expire at any moment? To prolong the pain of life through care is to end a part of one's soul; to succumb to rash belief in hopes that it will bring the bearer of the burden comfort he does not deserve. And so the kicks come flying towards him and he turns away but bears their weight and faces their unforgiving force. The black draft's hooves slide across the flesh covering his scapula with ease, leaving slight abrasions in their path that mix drops of blood with the thin coat of a creature who has lived too little in winter to face it as he should. He develops no coat to save himself from the cold- like the bark of his calling, he simply shifts colors to match the frostfall snow. Whatever protection Archibald has in a winter coat, Birch will never gain. The skin toughens and the roots seek warm nourishment- It is his roots that save him now. They bulge beneath the flesh and mark the veins of his lifeplant. Like a living part of him they seem to react violently to the attack, pulsing and pressing against the force of Archibald's daggers. Their sap mixes with his blood and coats the wound. In the cold of Orangemoon it hardens against flesh- in the dim light his bright eyes, white and dangerous, flash with unresolved emotion. Birch twists away from the onslaught of a buck and it strikes just below the line of his back on his left. The pain is fleeting, the memory of it reduced to a dull ache and a possibility of a thick bruise. He knows better than to think he can run from such contact completely. The two drafts are locked in a contest of brute strength, speed will do neither of them any good. With his own back now to the shadow, Birch too kicks out, mimicking the movements of the opposing force. Hooves aim low at the knees, hoping to force them in to buckle, and wicked intent forces them back down to the ground. He spares no time and shuffles back quickly. The massive form of his body twists and turns to face the stallion's back, and with a sudden heaviness, his weight falls upon the other stallion's hindquarters. Thirsty hooves strike at an enemy's spine, bared teeth nip at the flesh, and untamed eyes glint with flecks of red. [[WC: 548 || PC: 2/3 || AS: Birch receives the first hit on his left shoulder. He turns and receives the second just below his lower back on the left side, but no blood is drawn. From there he bucks and aims low for Archibald's knees. He then turns and rears to sort of mount Archibald, all the while striking out and biting at him.]] |
