Rostislav

No rest for the weary, my mother always said. Okay, that's bullshit - I didn't really know my mother and no one ever said anything like that to me day in and day out. But it is a common phrase and I find it suits me perfectly. First Elsa, then Cirrus.. but I'm already looking for a new fight. I'm not a battle-worn, time-tested veteran; I'm a middle-aged wannabe drunkard who is testing his metal to prove himself. Flints pounding the hardened, well-traveled dirt, I see a thicket ahead and send my body in that direction. Damaris has trailed behind me, carrying a half-eaten rabbit with her. I am more unsure of her leaving my side than she is, and I insist that when I go somewhere she bring along whatever she's up to. Upon entering, I find a clearing - how convenient - and none other than my reigning king. Damaris lies down at the edge of the clearing, out of the way. She looks between me and Midas with interest; her affection for Midas from his care months ago is apparent. She digs into the rabbit, her acidic saliva helping to dissolve away the hairs and cartilage that might hinder her meal.

My steps continue to carry me across from Midas, my own prints covering the many that have been left before me. I bow my crown to his and address him appropriately. "A tussle, Comrade? Good for us both, I think." More good for him than myself. I'm not in the best of shape and yet I seek to go onwards anyway. My wounds are healing, yes, but there are definite bruises that still lie hidden beneath my ivory sprinkled pelt. My scrapes are healing, hard scabs protecting them on my neck, with scars over my right ear. My chest is still tender from the repeated hits there, but I can move without limping. I pray that Midas does not find this weakness, or I may not be moving much at all for awhile.

I don't wait for his answer: if he's here, I know already his reply will be acquiescence. I wonder what way I can begin this fight and not put my weaknesses up on a silver platter. How can I use this dusty terrain to my advantage? I move toward Midas, but stop a few yards away just out of reach, and I begin to trot back and forth, like in a military line before the battlefield. My hooves kick up dust and dirt as I purposefully pound them into the ground. When I'm satisfied, I turn away, moving at a canter I make a half-circle and turn toward Midas again. Moving faster, I approach him head on, head down with my horns out toward him, hoping that the dust I've kicked up will lessen his ability to defend himself. With luck, perhaps I can tear at his chest or neck, or poke a few holes in his face. Even some deep scrapes would be satisfying to me, and I wonder if, as I did with Cirrus, I can pull away with flaps of skin hanging from my horns.

I'm not sure if this is a stupid idea or a good one. It's certainly more creative than I've ever been in a fight, but perhaps its only purpose is showmanship. I'm not sure I've kicked up enough dust to do me any good, and Midas is no middle-aged wannabe drunkard. My hopes are high that I may be able to prove myself, but clever or not, this is going to be one tough "tussle."


Walk. Talk.

WC: 597
Attack: [1,3]
OOC: Tried to kick up dust to screen his attack, comes straight on at a canter and tries to spear Midas wherever he can, or scrape him up.
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