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12-18-2015, 07:22 PM
Ashamin
Watching the laurelin rise was like watching a sunset in reverse. Some cosmic force pulling gold back to its zenith, when by all means it should have sunk slowly into nothing. Thranduil would, by Ashamin's intentions, become a faded memory. Let nothing else like Thranduil rise to take his place. Let the haruspex be quelled, let the black figurine do its work and settle his doubt and rage. Let the golden walk away and stay unharmed, let Ashamin give in and maybe forgive. These were the prayers that were held at a distance, in the mind of a cerndyr asleep in a soft bed of silk. But someday Lochan would wake and know the truth: none of his dreams had come true. He would wake and walk into a nightmare of abandonment. No, nothing could calm the painted buck's rage, not now. He watched with ears tightly flattened to his skull as Thranduil, now covered in gold armor, spouted insolent words and walked past him--no, ran--out into the open clearing in the valley. The other armor, rejected but more beautiful than anything such a covetous liar could weigh himself down with, rested at Ashamin's hooves. Through a process that was filled with labor but dripping with pride, Ashamin slowly lowered his body, pulled the armor across his back, stepped into the cannon guards, and prepared himself for war. Perhaps if Ashamin had seen Haldir, he would have stopped. Perhaps if that companion's kind gesture had been noticed, Ashamin would have reconsidered. Ashamin, though, saw only rage. It burned in his eyes and filled him with untenable adrenaline. Thranduil ran, down into some hellish depths, and Ashamin watched with certainty. He was going to take on the Laurelin. He was going to prove himself once and for all, and the golden would choke on his hoard. He rushed forward, the trinket offered to him by Haldir unconsciously kicked with his front hoof and knocked down the hill. There it tumbled, a black speck on the ice and snow. Later, such kindness would be found--later, such hatred regretted. But for now Ashamin only charged, (following Thranduil's path almost exactly, deviating just slightly to the left,) not giving Thranduil a chance to command him to attack, not hearing the liar's insistence that would follow. The seer's tail flew at his back, his coil sparked, his mask's tooth and amulets clanged upon his breast with the beating of his heart, and the weight of an old, stolen armor bore down upon his back. This was the weight of his own emotion, felt, at last, for once. This was the weight of selfish decision, of locking onto the target and galloping towards it with fury. The haruspex's magic lashed out once again, the clay of his enemy's heartbeat before him in the cold. So brittle Thranduil's heart was, so frozen was its beat as Ashamin tried to twist it into something too slow to maintain its body's systems. Perhaps such a cold thing would be easy to break. Hoping that he would succeed in manipulating the other's heart, Ashamin then tried to pull himself forward. No burst of speed could come, not beneath a weight still so new, but he did his best. Besides, Ashamin's build and heritage lent him a speed and ability to endure that was perhaps greater than the Golden's; in the end, it was likely to even out somewhat. He continued on his left-ward angle, trying to catch Thranduil's eye. Was he feeling the pain of a heart slowing to stillness, yet? When would the body drop, when would the eyes roll? That was the submission Ashamin searched for, that was the revenge he desired. Too long had Thranduil been unkind, too long had he threatened the integrity of this herd. With a monstrous cry, a neigh so sudden and loud that it drowned out Thranduil's command to begin, Ashamin the endurant, the armored, summoned his mask from its chain and threw himself to the right, hoping to bite the base of Thranduil's neck. Had they been almost parallel, as Ashamin had projected, it would be the most accessible, painful target without endangering himself and given their difference in height. The armor and the mask together hindered his vision for a moment, but he'd done his best to calculate before trying to strike. Should he succeed, the enchantment of his mask could do more damage than he ever would have wanted before that moment. But that moment, when his black eyes burned with hate and the dark figurine sat neglected at the base of the hill, was a moment of forgetting. When the haruspex remembered, he'd never again be the stallion he'd once been. At the end of this all, Ashamin would still be lost. "" |
WC: 794/800
PC: 1/3 A, 0/1 D
Note: This is an OOC teaching spar (I will be giving Hawk notes), and directly continued from this thread: Armed and Caged
Setting: Clearing in the Aurora Basin in Orangemoon. Gray and misty, daytime.
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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