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Wind tosses the giant's mane into stormy tangles around his thick neck, forcing his eyes to narrow against the gale. Despite the skull on his face, the wind can still access the delicate pupils that gleam starkly against the pattered white of the bone, like rubies in the sockets of his fallen foe's face. They water and blink frantically to clear themselves, whilst the beast lowers his head to alter the angle of the buffeting breeze. The midnight sky is cloudless and there is no threat of rain, and the clear heavens create a brisk autumn night that's made even colder with the windchill. The stallion's flesh quivers as he moves at a heavy trot, his sparse coat little help against the elements. Out here, in the Flats, there is no shelter from the wind, no respite from the biting jaws of the Gods themselves. There are no trees, no rocks, no nothing as far as the eye can see, which is quite disconcerting to a man like Volterra who is so used to his horizon having a defined border of mountains or ocean. Out here, there is nothing to block his unspoilt view of the place where land meets sand, and he's quite surprised to see that it curves. That...almost implies that the world is round, doesn't it? But that simply cannot be possible, else how does he not tip over when he reaches those distant curves? Such philosophical thoughts have no place on the battlefield, and that is precisely what Volterra intends to turn this place into. He is used to fighting in relatively enclosed spaces, or at least places where there's a defined edge to the battleground. Here, there is no such thing. There is just the mirror-like ground beneath his feet that reflects the full moon with perfect clarity, and only the ripples from his hooves on the thin surface water serve to disturb the identical image. It even captures colour, because he can see a gleam of gold and red from where his dragons soar high above him in perfect lazy circles, as awestruck as he is by the sheer emptiness of this land. Last time he and Vérzés came here, it was to fight a God, not admire the scenery. Although he intends to fight here again, this time he has chance to take in the eerie beauty of the land before he gets down to the brutal business of war. The sand is moist, sucking at his hooves as he shifts from trot to walk, but it's a far cry from the deadly mire he'd suffered through when he fought Grimalkin during the raging storm. He eases to a halt, tossing his mane out of his face and prancing slightly on the spot to test the footing. Perfect. Lifting his colossal head, the young stallion bellows for an opponent, feeling the familiar hum of excitement begin to build in his chest. "" ________________ @Morir spar ! Set in the Halcyon Flats after dark, windy but not rainy. Up to you about magic/companions! <3 0/3 - 488 words AND NOTHING LIKE MY PUNCH DRUNK KISS |
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
