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01-14-2016, 04:37 AM
Rain stung his eyes, it fell mercilessly, like wet bullets shot from the dark, pregnant clouds above. He was drenched, his hide black for the water it held, his blaze a beacon for his enemy to use to track him, his pale mane and tail a similar disadvantage in this game where stealth and cunning would certainly come in handy. But stealth and cunning was forgotten, this was a fight of strength, sweat and grit, of determination and a clash of titans in the middle of a storm. Though his feet were once upon a time as creamy in hue as his mane and tail, the strands are waterlogged and sand-laden now, and blend into the dark chocolate of his hide - becoming almost black in the storm, if not for the flashes of lightning that occasionally (thunderingly) illuminate the situation. Grimalkin shuts his eyes tight as his hocks unfurl the savage beating his hinds were unleashing at his enemy, both in concentration and an effort to reduce the amount of wet sand that might splash up into his emerald pools during the motion.
He felt a connection, a slick slap against flesh, and he knows his dark pale-faced enemy is likely to be hot on his tail again. Grimalkin found what purchase he could beneath him and powered forward, as speedy as his bulky, wet mass could - which wasn't very fast, if one were to compare it to a sunny day with firm footing below. But he was spurred onwards by a determination to grow, to improve and to not get his ass handed to him.
A vague sense of surprise settled on his countenance as he sensed, rather than saw, the behemoth next time. The longer legs of Volterra undoubtedly allowed him to gain on Grimalkin's evading form; it is the guttural grunt that reverberates within Volterra's chest that alert Grim to the incoming strike. Immediately the chocolate-stained-black steed dug his heels into the damp, sandy loam, his hocks scraped against the trenches that formed behind him (his haunch squealed in protest as the bruised muscle was stretched and tensed so soon after being pommelled). The legs that came swinging towards him had no marker for his eyes to track, no pale tones to tell him exactly where and when he would feel the strike that was to come - then a glint, a hint, of silver (no, he thought, diamond), glimmered amongst the muck and rain and hooves, and he flinched, a grimace that shuddered through his entire body. The reflex did as his instincts prayed it would - it saved him from potentially fatal damage, it caused his form to simultaneously brace and shudder away from the impact.
Due to him applying the brakes earlier, Volterra's original aim was skewed, and he felt the impact land upon his left shoulder, however his posture encouraged the blow to roll off sooner than it otherwise would have. He felt it, certainly - it pounded the thin skin that stretched over the scapula and pinched it between diamond and bone, it stung like a bitch, and Grimalkin would have screamed had he been a man of lesser constitution - as it was, he grunted and ground his teeth in annoyance, ears pinning further down into the depths of his soaked mane and nape. A shallow cut, surrounded by hoof-shaped bruising, swelled almost immediately at the site of impact - but the sting was washed away in the downpour, as the constant thrum of rain stimulated his nerves to the point of saturation, and numbing.
A savage snarl pulled back the stallion's lips, as, dragons forgotten about, he lurched forward again, an attempt to give chase to his enemy before Volterra might have had a chance to find his feet completely again. Grimalkin wanted to bite, to chew and rip and tear at the dark hide, and so he aimed for Volterra's right side, somewhere on his flank region - ideally the thin skin that folded in between the stifle and barrel - but he would settle for just about anywhere.
Without hesitation, he retracted his muzzle and attempted to strike against the titan once more, this time with his chin tucked and his antlers held strong in an attempt to pommel Volterra. He aimed for the same area - the right flank - with hopes of disabling that which he viewed as his enemy's greatest arsenal.
738 words
3/3 attack posts
0/1 closing defence
@Volterra
He felt a connection, a slick slap against flesh, and he knows his dark pale-faced enemy is likely to be hot on his tail again. Grimalkin found what purchase he could beneath him and powered forward, as speedy as his bulky, wet mass could - which wasn't very fast, if one were to compare it to a sunny day with firm footing below. But he was spurred onwards by a determination to grow, to improve and to not get his ass handed to him.
A vague sense of surprise settled on his countenance as he sensed, rather than saw, the behemoth next time. The longer legs of Volterra undoubtedly allowed him to gain on Grimalkin's evading form; it is the guttural grunt that reverberates within Volterra's chest that alert Grim to the incoming strike. Immediately the chocolate-stained-black steed dug his heels into the damp, sandy loam, his hocks scraped against the trenches that formed behind him (his haunch squealed in protest as the bruised muscle was stretched and tensed so soon after being pommelled). The legs that came swinging towards him had no marker for his eyes to track, no pale tones to tell him exactly where and when he would feel the strike that was to come - then a glint, a hint, of silver (no, he thought, diamond), glimmered amongst the muck and rain and hooves, and he flinched, a grimace that shuddered through his entire body. The reflex did as his instincts prayed it would - it saved him from potentially fatal damage, it caused his form to simultaneously brace and shudder away from the impact.
Due to him applying the brakes earlier, Volterra's original aim was skewed, and he felt the impact land upon his left shoulder, however his posture encouraged the blow to roll off sooner than it otherwise would have. He felt it, certainly - it pounded the thin skin that stretched over the scapula and pinched it between diamond and bone, it stung like a bitch, and Grimalkin would have screamed had he been a man of lesser constitution - as it was, he grunted and ground his teeth in annoyance, ears pinning further down into the depths of his soaked mane and nape. A shallow cut, surrounded by hoof-shaped bruising, swelled almost immediately at the site of impact - but the sting was washed away in the downpour, as the constant thrum of rain stimulated his nerves to the point of saturation, and numbing.
A savage snarl pulled back the stallion's lips, as, dragons forgotten about, he lurched forward again, an attempt to give chase to his enemy before Volterra might have had a chance to find his feet completely again. Grimalkin wanted to bite, to chew and rip and tear at the dark hide, and so he aimed for Volterra's right side, somewhere on his flank region - ideally the thin skin that folded in between the stifle and barrel - but he would settle for just about anywhere.
Without hesitation, he retracted his muzzle and attempted to strike against the titan once more, this time with his chin tucked and his antlers held strong in an attempt to pommel Volterra. He aimed for the same area - the right flank - with hopes of disabling that which he viewed as his enemy's greatest arsenal.
738 words
3/3 attack posts
0/1 closing defence
@Volterra
colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart
please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
I write what I feel at the time
and hope everyone else does the same c:
