Ah, so there was the spark of indignation. She had it, lodged somewhere between their battle, incensed and curled, uncoiling and unfurling. There was some amount of relief traipsing through his membrane, because he surely didn’t want a fellow leader who deigned and longed for warfare, but then couldn’t compose the task, and he wouldn’t have felt much satisfaction or contentment in a one-sided onslaught. The Forsaken was no longer the enemy, she was no Lace he yearned to scorch and maul, she was no Regime member wanton and plaguing – in fact, she was now configuring as an ally (and if that was a bitter message to swallow, he rummaged his thoughts quickly away, vexed by the mere statement).
Her flying companion was the first to burst, arching over him in a torrent of frost, as if he were being burned and frozen by his own homeland, encased and emboldened by winter’s grating fringes and fingers. It touched and mauled along his spine, cold, chilling, embittered knives clawing their way across his backbone; his muscles recoiled and shuddered, jaw unclenching at the tremor of a shiver. It seemed to freeze his movements, and he was sluggish in its upheaval, digging against rock, gravel, and remnants of snow to get away from the dragon’s might (and only a little gratified the lizard didn’t bear arms of fire, he had enough anguishing memories of being encased in an infernal threshold). Perhaps this series of circumstances allowed her an opportunity to come upon his left side, because even while he jerked to the right, she maneuvered beside him, sword sliding and slicing against his left shoulder. Was there hate in that stroke? Was there menace in that touch? He reeled away from the pain, side stepping over from her entanglements, heaving one molten snort of agony as his blood dabbled in cool rivulets along his skin, down his foreleg.
Ceasing movement, gesturing only once to gaze upon his new wound, his piercing stare ruminated and scrutinized over her mangled frame, the gashes and scrapes caused by her own follies, the bestial claim he’d held and scorched beyond her armor, but there was something else lingering there, perhaps behind her eyes or snared within her brooding core. Prowess, potency, potential, all twisted and distorted, and maybe, with the right tactics, the right ruses and strategies, she’d be able to gain more acclaim within their frozen midst. Only time and experience would tell.
The Reaper granted her a singular nod, possessing his thoughts and speculations upon the fight in the solo maneuver: pride, for himself, for her, and a fleeting nuance of curiosity and inquiry. He’d save the queries and questions for later. The only thing remaining was healing.
[1/1 final defense post. 454 words.
Deimos feels Tinek’s frost attack run down his spine, rampant and chilling, it feels like knives and slows his body down. In this circumstance, Ophelia is able to stab his left shoulder as he tries to duck away to the right.
Good fight Tamme! Thank you!]
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[JUDGED] Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle]
