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05-22-2015, 11:42 AM
SUMMARY
WC: 797
PC: Attack 1/3
Tagged: @[Torleik], @[Aud]
Summary: Ashamin starts to run at the last second towards Torleik and to the right, but is not fast enough. Torleik's horns pierce his right hindquarter, the right horn in his buttock and the left in his stifle. Ashamin attempts to rear, focusing his balance on his uninjured right side and aiming to strike his hooves down on Torleik's back, where he can hopefully support his weaker side. While doing his, he attempts to wrap his tail around Torleik's horns and bite the base of Torleik's neck; given that the point of his horn is at his lips, this could also affect Torleik if the bite is successful.
OOC: Whoooo boy. Gotta wipe the dust off of my sparring skills. Thanks for the tips RedGod.
ASHAMIN
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
A king?
Well, shit.
The young buck snorted--maybe Torleik would see it as a sign of his readiness for conflict but it was nothing more than a manifestation of apprehension. He was thankful for the fact that he'd chosen to defer to the other (faith knew he had no clue how to start an attack on anyone, let alone a king.) but he knew, too, that a king didn't often rise in power by sitting on his ass. No, if this stallion was a king, he'd likely seen more than a few battles. And Ashamin? Well, he'd had a couple shut-mouth, horn-attack-free spars with his father more than a year ago. He regretted his promises to Einarr. He had entered into a death wish now, and some part of him felt as if it had been under false pretenses.
But the older stallion had ceased chatter, and it was time to focus on the fight. Ashamin knew he was on that hill, but had no clue that it meant an advantage. Had he been aware, he would have moved past the other stallion before allowing the fight to begin. With his inexperience, the advantage would do him little good--only make him a target for attack. From below he would have had the opportunity for some defense. After all, a stallion of Torleik's size wasn't likely to have the power to outweigh his bulk and lift him high enough off the ground to attack Ashamin with any sort of jump.
And this, at least, the young stallion predicted correctly. He wasn't surprised when the stallion charged forth, magnificent, demonic horns borne like dual swords. He had expected something rooted in strength rather than speed; what surprised him was the paralyzing fear. Instinct told him exactly what to do: to run, to run for his dear, short life, scattering pebbles as he fled to the safety of somewhere, anywhere outside of the king's range.
Yet still, fear won. It was hopeless--he froze before Torleik, his black eyes glazing in terror as that obsidian form drew closer. He could have outrun the attack, had he not let his fear get the best of him. But as it were, it was only at the last second that Ashamin could muster any attempt at getting away, at running towards and to the right of the attack. Though perhaps the vague aim of the King was altered, the attack still struck true.
For a moment, perhaps that magical, anticipatory one where time seemed to freeze the horns as a gentle touch on his quivering, shaggy hindquarters, Ashamin felt nothing. And then, for the next, he felt everything. He faltered and his legs wobbled, threatening to give out. Both horns struck his left hindquarter with deadly accuracy, forcing through layers of tissue and muscle to emerge on the other side. The right horn drove through his glute--the left, through his stifle. He had no time to be thankful for the luck that instinctive moment had afforded him. It was beyond his comprehension to recognize that Torleik's horns were mere inches from vital organs. Everything was beyond his comprehension except pain.
Ashamin cried out, his faltering, piercing neigh a twisted spectacle of hurt. His mind swam, his vision intermittently sharpening and blurring as the pain flooded his being. The boy tried to remember what Veril had said, once, while brandishing his own, long, magnificent horn that put Ashamin's twisted knot to shame. Something about sheaths, about stabbing, biting, piercing, burning flesh, oh faith and all there was, had anything ever hurt more than this? Would he ever find a relief from the two horns in his side, the two arbiters of death embedded in his flesh?
Instinct almost pulled him away from the king, but his father's advice, clouded, at last returned to him: leave the knife in the wound, my son. For faith's sake, never pull it out.
And so Ashamin did not retreat. His long tail whipped forward and he twisted it, hoping to grab ahold of Torleik's horns and keep them in place. He dug his hooves into the rock, thankful for their deep clefts and soft claws that afforded him stability, and reared. Pushing through the pain even as it worsened and the thick horns dug deeper, he lifted himself as best as he could, focusing his balance on his uninjured side. His left support would come, with luck, if his pointed hooves crashed on the king's spine--if his lowered, opened jaw could grab the tender base of Torleik's neck, perhaps cutting the flesh with the pointed tip of Ashamin's horn.
The horns twisted in his twitching hindquarter and Ashamin cried out once more with the pain. But this was a battle of close quarters.
Ashamin was not leaving this hill.
Table by Jen, with help from Avis
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
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