Gull

Poor Rostislav. There he was, enjoying a beautiful day and a nice walk in the woods, when out of the blue a stranger charges at him. Perhaps it is a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or perhaps he has simply had the bad luck to run into a madman—because that’s what you look like as you launch yourself across the clearing at him, yelling at the top of your lungs.

But just as you have no way of knowing that he isn’t responsible for the misery of your kinsmen, your unsuspecting adversary has no way of knowing that you associate his horns with years of famine, of jagged scars and of jutting ribs. He cannot know that the entirety of your experience with his kind comprises of shadowy monsters picked from survivors’ tales, told bitterly in raspy voices and gurgled from throats knotted with scar tissue, fleshy souvenirs carved by horns not unlike his own. And from the way you’re racing towards him, he cannot be expected to imagine that it’s nothing personal, because it’s not…just, well, it is. All he can possibly surmise is that you don’t like him, and only the gods know why.

Of course, as you’re en route to attacking him, you’re not thinking about any of this. Really, you’re not thinking at all; that much would be apparent to any witness who’s watching you attempt to clobber a friendly stranger, completely unprovoked. Thought comes to you slowly enough when you are lucid, but now, it seems as if it has completely deserted you. Pure instinct is what’s driving you to lunge at the horned beast, that and anger. For anger is the only emotion that your body can manage to hold right now, and even that feeling, raw and primitive, cannot be contained. It spills over, clouds your eyes, claws at your muscles, and tears at your soul—you want this devil to suffer, just the way your family did at the horns of his kind. You want him to hurt.

Unfortunately, hurt is exactly what you’re going to be in about two seconds if you don’t move fast. You are about to slam into the unicorn head-on when you see the angle of the black spikes on his head. They are wickedly sharp and glittering like obsidian and pointed right at you. Panic rises in your chest as your so-called instinct suddenly decides to abandon ship, screaming at you to do something! on its way out. It’s too late: passion may be on your side, but physics is not. After racing at the stranger from one side of the clearing to the other, by the time you reach the edge where he is standing, momentum will carry you forward no matter what you do. All you can attempt is to throw your weight to his right and pray that you avoid his horns. Maybe if you’re lucky, your shoulder will even ram the smaller stag and knock him off balance. But Lady Luck is a fickle creature, and she’s never seemed to care much for you or your winged brethren. Maybe you should have considered that before you picked a fight.


WC: 534

1/3 attacks, 0/1 closing defense
Summary: Gull charges blindly at @[Rostislav], consequently noticing the angle of his horns too late. Gull attempts to avoid them by throwing his weight to Rostislav’s right, intending to shoulder him and shove him off balance.

Setting: A clearing in the Threshold, early afternoon. Grass footing, which is lush, but not particularly slippery. Trees form a ring around the fighting ground. No magic, no companions.

OOC: Hopefully I set this up right—first spar ever, wheeeee ! Rosti's starting position is taken from here: http://helovia.net/showthread.php?tid=14821

*EDITED TO CHANGE THE PREFIX TO 'JUDGE'*

trouble just grew wings