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06-26-2015, 01:43 PM
SUMMARY
WC: 779
PC: Attack 3/3
Tagged: @[Torleik]
Summary: Ashamin continues moving after succesfully scraping Torleik and makes a wide circle around to Torleik's right, slowing at first and then speeding a little to try and catch up to where Torleik has moved to. Once closer, he tries to bite Torleik's neck on the right side. When the storm comes he takes off as fast as he can manage, and lashes his tail blindly, aiming for anywhere, as he escapes. He manages to miss the worst of the storm and stands outside of the radius with scrapes, halting and looking back.
OOC: No worries! I have been there. Turning it over to you now to finish this off.
ASHAMIN
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
It became impossible for the buck to distinguish his living moments from his dying ones. He thought, maybe, that he was dying. He thought, maybe, that this was the end.
But the rushes of pain, that heedless, needful flow of blood, ceased his ability to understand even himself. He was running, barely growing closer, loping at a speed only the injured could manage to fall into, and he didn't know why, anymore.
And that black beast, that Torleik who'd torn him apart, just stood there.
Ashamin felt something like rage. Was this something the other stallion found amusing? Was this mocking, this mimicking of earlier damage and failure in tactic? The older stallion could have moved in any way, he could have been safe. And still, Ashamin watched as the distance between them lessened and the senior stayed where he was.
It was enough to bring him to spitting and tears. His features dripped with sweat, his body drained out blood at a dangerous rate, and with that level of pain, so intense and complete, he was reduced to a snivelling mess. When at last there was nothing between them, a mere second after Torleik had turned to redirect Ashamin's attack, the painted one could feel no victory. His rough horn scraped across flesh, the left hind of the older, maybe bolder creature, and though he smelled the sting of it, the resistance of the attack and how it tugged his face back was only another pain.
Ashamin watched, body still in stumbling motion, as Torleik trotted away, apparently almost unharmed. Ashamin thought he could see the thin traces of the scrape, what looked like broken flesh (but with weariness covering his eyes with a film of tears, who knew if what he saw was true,) and was only further fueled. He had failed, even in that last vain attempt to fight back. Though Ashamin circled back, trying to reach the black bloodskald, he knew that Torleik's towering word was truth.
He was over. This fight, whatever it was, was done.
But though the words were true, Ashamin lacked the wisdom to heed them. That intelligence, that gift of hindsight, would have to come later and after this beating. Though he had begun to slow, almost to a stop, at Torleik's back, the distance the older one had put between them and the manner of the spoken words spurred Ashamin somehow onward. He limped and his body creaked and groaned; his run could not match even the pace of Torleik's easy trot, now, but still he pressed onward as if he were filled with fire. "No shame for you," he hissed through an aching jaw as he ran a circle towards Torleik, heading for the stallion's right side, "but the end of things, for me."
Because wasn't that, in some ways, also the truth? How could Ashamin live with a failure he created by giving in? If he was to fail, if he was to fall, let it be with the honor of one who would not step away from danger. Let it be with the hard-headed foolishness of the only warrior he'd ever truly known.
Ashamin had only a moment to try and attack before the storm came. He tried, even at his slow pace, to sidle up alongside Torleik and reach out with tender young teeth. Ashamin tried to snap at the older one's neck: he wanted, in his mottled gray heart, to make bleed the one who pitied him.
But before he could even take note of whether or not he was successful, he felt the first stings of that storm. Sharp sleet struck him once, twice, then over again. He neighed, he suppressed the instinct to buck on such a weak form, and he bolted as fast as he could. Not that his pace was anything impressive, now, nor was it fast enough to clear him completely of the damage, but it was quick enough to remove him from the worst of it. As he ran past Torleik, head low and eyes streaming, he lashed out blindly one last time with a strike of his crooked, bleeding tail.
At the edge of the storm, coat now covered in thin scrapes from where he had run through the beginning of the onslaught, he paused. For the first time, he let himself stop. As he stumbled before, so he halted in a weak way.
Ashamin looked back, his black eyes searching for some sign that he had maybe proven himself, proven something, through all this red vision and hurt.
But there was nothing but regret, and a sharp sting of reminder:
He was not meant for this life.
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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