He had never wanted to hurt this child, never wanted to give him permanent scars, possibly cripple him for life – but here they were, Torleik with blood on his horns and face, Ashamin with a grievously wounded hindquarter and the Bloodskald’s guilty conscience rooting him to the spot. Something like disbelief washed over him, drowning him in a tidal wave of confusion when the sanguine-matted stallion stumbled to his feet and feebly charged at him.

Charged at him demanding the king fight him – for what? For death or life? What did that even mean? He was done. Could he not see that? Could he not see the fight was over? Torleik would attack him no more, and the child could not take anymore damage by the rabicano’s assessment. Why was this damn spar so important, continuing on despite his clearly serious wounds such a need?

What was going through his head?

“I will not indulge a death wish!” snapped the Bloodskald, figure still unmoving. Surely Ashamin would not complete the charge. His path would break any moment now; he would stand down. He had to stand down. It was insanity otherwise. The King of the Edge had already done so much harm and by pure accident…how had it all happened? Transfixed to the rock-littered ground, the former general tried desperately to assuage the condemnation he was mounting against himself.

He hadn’t meant to.

You could have pulled up at the last second.

How was he supposed to know Ashamin wouldn’t move?

You had time to alter your course.

Why was it his responsibility to ensure the damn fool didn’t get himself killed?

You would still be responsible for his death. You are still responsible for his wound.

Torleik knew he had to offer penance for his error, seek some form of redemption on the battlefield for his fault; his soul could not be at peace if he left things the way they stood. Steeling himself for Ashamin’s charge, which he intended to take without flinching, doubt crept in just as those last critical seconds struck on the clock of this scuffle once more. If he remained immobile, would allowing his opponent to hit him result in further injury to the insane young one? Would it be worth whatever injury the Bloodskald would receive in return? He was moving so slowly…

With a growl of frustration, Torleik quickly turned toward his oncoming opponent, attempting to place their bodies parallel to one another. A quick burst of force from his hind legs, accented by a very displeased ache from his bruised back at the motion, pushed him away from Ashamin at an angle and placed the target of his attacker’s charge on his left backside. The scrape of the lighter stallion’s horn against his flesh, the fiery burn that made him grit his teeth together and hiss out the pain, was followed by an equally sharp thought:

’Fitting…’

Now he’d taken damage where he’d dealt it out, and though the wounds were in no way remotely equal, his soul felt…cleansed – at least marginally. He could have avoided the slow charge but he didn’t. He took the pain because he deserved it.

Because he hadn’t been able to stop himself from nearly crippling a pathetic fighter. Because he should not have assumed Ashamin could fight at all. Because his haste to flex his muscles, to whet his appetite for violence had overtaken his logic.

A trot carried him away from Ashamin’s immediate vicinity and the Bloodskald narrowed his gaze, drawing on the magic he always felt humming around beneath his skin. He’d learned seasons ago that if he concentrated, the sky would storm, cold and angry and violent. Maybe that would get this fool boy to stop. Focusing all his self-blame and anger into the buzzing in his veins, small satisfaction wiggled its way up his spine when the sky darkened and rumbled, clouds forming thick and menacing overhead for about twenty meters around. “It is over, boy! There is no shame in walking away from this! I have harmed you far more than I ever wanted and I will harm you no further no matter what your will to continue might be!” he boomed, a stinging, pelting sleet drawing forth from the clouds as the Bloodskald gave his declaration.

Torleik didn’t think the wounded child could outrun the onset of the storm but his attacker had surprised him with his resolve thus far – Ashamin very well could have managed to skirt the dangerous sleet. If not, if he was caught, he should be grateful the rabicano hadn’t the desire to make it pelt hail – and maybe, just maybe, he would give up.

Somehow the dual-horned demon knew it would not be so.


@Ashamin


WC: (790 in word) || Attack (3/3) || Closing defense (0/1)

Summary: Torleik lets Ashamin hit him (more or less) with his charge, then summons a storm with his active magic in an attempt to get Ashamin to either be frightened enough to stop, or overwhelmed enough to stop.

OOC: I'm so sorry I disappeared. I suck at time management sometimes and when school started up I just got swallowed.