Fire at last lashed outward and the wrath found target in soft flesh. A howl drowns in the golden’s pinned ears with the sound of success as his own body is slung from its path on impact. The metal collar, sings out its fangs, but does nothing to protect the gold’s chest from the blow. Like a wallop of metal it crashes into him, pushing his body out of the controlled collection.

In the heat of the flames, deep inside his breast, a laughter rolls for a second. A wicked twist of his soul celebrated the feeling of blood pounding hard against his chest and cold, numbing action of spilling blood. This was not blood lust though, but something more selfish. It was a breath of fresh air. It was intoxicating almost for it empowering. A marathon after days of bed rest. He was powerful. No longer a passive face to the hells around him but an active force fighting back.

The moment’s triumph did not last long. Jerked by the impact and his body lost its controlled steps. Cloven hooves now being pushed were jerking for balance could not be as careful and the icy patch which had left the other stranded was gleaming below the gold. Hooves slipped, ripping his blades from the other, and sending a spear of panic through his prideful smile. They stammer to keep from the ground. Tipping back and forth and sliding like a foolish foal he manages to stay up only for a moment longer, before his hinds, in effort to move under him to stop, slip and he is left sitting on his haunches coming to a sliding halt.

There was not much time to process. No time to rage or plan. Lightening in make and speed strikes quick. A flash, the same as before, whips over his head, only this time it also singes across his shoulders. Had he not dropped his hips or head to balance, the blow could have been much worse, not that that was any comfort now. Like being sliced with a blade of fire the strike takes his breath way so much that the poll in his mouth clatters on the rock and ice. Everything screamed. It sizzled through his body with volts echoing on his nerves, but the top of his shoulders burned. He was frozen for a moment, the laughter within silenced by the knife of pain. Agony, panic and despair wells within him, revealing the fragility and illusion of his resolve and knocking on the door of all those helpless agonies of the season.

But he was not done and dead. He was alive. Feeling came back to him of a body still in high speed. The brush of pain triggering reactions common to mortal souls of faster heart and breath. Searing needles pricked as he rose his hind up. His mind flooded with a mash of thoughts, tumbling together what were controlled and separate storylines before. It was hard to understand the source which he pulled from. He was angry for the hit, and to feel physical pain. It was yet another wound compounding upon the season’s agonies. Look here, said he, at the world trying to knock him in the back. Look how it bites and stings. This though he could fight. There stands the maker he could serve revenge upon. The golden would show that little runt that this season’s woes would not conqueror him so easily.

With a wild fire now brimming in his eyes, and not a second lost from standing, he reaches for the pole dropped, triggering it open. The blades flash out menacingly and he slowly, with withers pricking and stinging, turns to face the other. As spars always seemed to find him the blind rage had taken over. His well laid plans tossed from the window, and at the risk of himself he would wound the other. Front half leaps forward onto the ice sheet he had slid on as he locates the other. Under the snow it was impossible to tell if the ice continued to the black and white or not but he would reach it all the same. Hinds push off the rocks and his front slides, in a controlled chaos and like a reining horse, slides with force across the ice. The spikes on his collar still threatening, horns ready, but now also the double blades ready. He was a sliding suicide bomber, willing to knock himself down, if only to knock the other too. And if the ice did not reach, his legs were more than propelled to finish the distance. Withers needling with pain affirms his war chant, he would show fate he was not as helpless as the season sought to render him.


OOC ::
"Speech"

OOC :: @[Roskuld] I MADE IT IN TIME --so sorry for the wait...again
ATK:: 2/3
WORD:: 796
Items:: Circlet, polearm
Identities:: Ampere, Cashmere
Injuries:: A several inch long burn on the top of his shoulders (from lightening), and later a bruise on his rump
Summary:: Thranduil looses control at impact and slips on the ice. Sliding away he lands on his rump as Roskuld's lighting whips across his withers. Feeling the pain of the season's woes he pushes that to Roskuld and turns to leap back on the ice and slide into him, blades and all.