Rostislav is a taller breed, (as are most of my competitors) every bit of his fleshy tank is rippling muscle, disciplined and tough as iron. This made agility my strongest boon; I couldn’t hope to ever overpower such a brute by strength alone. My ivories close across their mark, pinching the soft flesh just beside a point of what lovers consider painful when their rowdy mounts nipped with lustful intention to drive pleasure higher. Aye, we danced to an older tune, the sweet smell of perspiration rising from heated skin is our perfume, and the rapid pace of breath, that disheveled grunt of a pained opponent, our tempo. That bitter taste of male musk is upon my tongue, ebony lips slide further back, crumbling my face in a grimace as teeth jerk out tiny fragments of fuzz from his jacket.

Our pelts had to surely be a sheen of dust and dirt with the swath of grit flying around two sets of stamping feet. I squinted against the glare of sunlight and unclean air.

My forelimbs also hit with positive blow, a sweltering fever runs through them, up toward my forearm when knees collide forcefully with the angled side of his head—(thankfully missing the tipped horns in said process.) At this point all emotion has become basic and nearly animalistic, everything else is written off as a distraction…there are no other sounds I focus on, aside from scuffling dirt and his rasping breath as we struggled.

He’d pulled away first, tipping head aside to avoid further abuse from my flailing daggers. Molars unhinge themselves, retracting purposefully to avoid unnecessary damage to my Legatus and kinsman. It wasn’t my intention to harm this fellow, I merely sought to test his abilities. (Though his intentions where yet unfamiliar to me.) Like a scaled vermin curled angrily upon the ground, Rostislav swung his head toward my exposed neckline. Pronged points aimed for fragile tissue, aimed with the promise of concrete pain.

I had a split moment to react, hindquarters crumbled this body to the ground. Landing smoothly upon all fours, I jerked sharply right, crown lowering at a left angle over throatlatch to offer itself as a shield against his blood seeking attempt. My quick motions saved a possible wound that would have been hard to recover, (given my unprotected position), but I didn’t avoid contact. His antlers swung round, bending to follow my retreat; the tips of those spears fell against the high curve of my left shoulder, scrapping away bits of fur and scratching the surface with a shallow line down the length of that shoulder until it finally hit with a sharp, clank, as horn struck against solid steel. Heart raced ahead, tripped into a faster pace when I realized that one pulsebeat later, and his rack could have pierced a rather unattractive hole. My shoulder would be sore, as it would have had I scrapped against a barbed rock—ebony hair would grow back eventually, but at least my flesh was still in-tact (for now.)

I’d scrambled aside and taken precious little time to plan or question, tis the only reason why my blood hadn’t been spilled by this worthy opponent. Gaze narrowed, hardening as the sting of his attack filtered into my brain, brows doted into tight knots…this stocky fellow was going to give me a reason to stay interested. Quarters bunched up again, this time instead of rising to the sky I swung head far right and down—the only visible warning he’d receive for what was to come. Our battle ground is hard packed, baked by sunlight and trampled upon by many a soldier. My feet found it relatively sturdy and quite easy to glide upon. (Considering this body had grown used to dancing upon softer turf.)

I shifted the front of my body further right, twisting away from him, retreating only a pace or so aside. Cranium thrust down and quarters thrust up, hindfeet violently flew out with every intention to graze the left side of his (pristine) chest, barrel or whatever body part happened to fall prey to my bowed feet. An unintentionally gasp lifted past my lips from the effort it took to rise and thrust hard.

OOC:

Attack (2/3)

Word count: 705