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Tempered rage, anger captured in the grip of serenity, was power. Had Ophelia known his inner turmoil, this would have been her council. Impotent rage so often expressed by the lesser warriors gave way to fast shame and crushing defeat, but the desire for blood that grew as a tree, slowly and surely, was not so easily suppressed. This emotion was not so tied to arrogance, learned from defeat, and excelled under noses, unnoticed until unleashed and the world bowed at your prowess, wondering ‘how did this happen?’ The pale princess believed Deimos to possess this tempered fury, conviction awaiting a crown after longsuffering stealth. Though the magnitude of her passions was less, she too waited for opportunity to display the might of not only herself but the entire Aurora Basin.
The girl who had wandered so ignorantly into the World’s Edge was dead, murdered by bloodshed, heartbreak and reality. Feeling the life drain from her body had been impetus enough to make a change, reason enough to stop fighting the prematurity of her emotional aging. Older now, she could lament the loss of her childhood without raging against the injustice with naivety and foolishness.
Strange, dual colored eyes watched as his similar form twisted onto their impromptu field of battle, his stature and mass very similar to her own. Without watching him move, little else could be surmised save for the initial thought that they were evenly matched. Granted, her armor and Tinek provided her additional comforts, but the wicked magic possessed by Deimos was no small concern. She was understandably disinterested in feelings its effects once more and would adjust her tactics considerably. Ophelia did not stand before him as a wall to tear down to reach the goal; she desired to be the mastermind, moving the pieces one by one into position until foreign kings found themselves cornered and yielding to his queen.
Shared words were an unnecessary and forgotten exchange as Deimos approached, his ropey neck arched and bearing the sword on his brow. Though her silver tongue could weave beautiful lies and stunning compliments, she could not talk her way out of damage. The ground beneath her hooves shifted, the sensation gritty and real, and the blood she intended to shed would drip in reality. Confidence, not arrogance, settled into her soul. Confutatis had run in the face of her prowess, and Elsa had fallen. She and Ktulu had swept a herd clean with war, claiming it as their own. The pale princess was a close friend to violence.
Left, elegant ear shifted in his direction, and her movements, swift, made to dodge. Fleet hooves danced away, but his physique belied his agility. Ophelia lacked practice bearing armor, unused to movement altered by protection. Tinek took flight and screeched a warning, large metallic wings sweeping the air in his ascent. Hooves twisted in the gritty loam, left shoulder spinning away from his advance, and the point of his horn grazed the purest white hair of her side where armor exposed a fleshy weakness. The pressure ached, but no reward of crimson leaked from her belly. Forehooves touched the ground again, and her haunches compressed like a coiled spring to launch her away.
Speed propelled her swiftly, but not before the brunt of his fangs pinched the skin below her left hip. Ow. Ophelia’s ears flattened against her skull, her migration yanking the hide through the ivory weapons and cutting a small gash. The Forsaken’s temper flared, yawning like a great chasm in her chest and exhaling fiery smoke. Prompted by pain, the pale princess jerked her hind hooves up, threatening to catch the offender in his chest with a wild kick. Deimos was the first to draw blood. Damn.
Once settled firmly on the ground again, the Lady circled with ethereal calm, the façade hiding the determined burn within. Ophelia twisted, horn lowered and leapt forward with bated promise of impalement of his left pectoral. Simultaneously, powers of magic twisted from her mind to that of Deimos, and she attempted to delve with the plan to remove the memory of her approach. The tactic had worked against Elsa, serving to make her nearly invisible but as if she had never been there at all. Ophelia neared, unsure of her success but with every objective to prove her skill and assert ownership of her position. The throne of Lady given, now earned.
[[(1/3) (736)
Summary Ophelia took a light scratch on her side from Deimos' horn but her spin helped her avoid most damage. She took the bite to her left hip but the skin was torn away as she jumped out of his grasp. Once landed, she kicks out at him and then circles to impale him. She uses her magic to try to erase only the immediate memory of her position ]]
OPHELIA
Faith shattered and decays as frosted blood flows in my veins
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[JUDGED] Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle]
