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03-22-2016, 12:55 PM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
He wondered why he did this to himself.
The heart thundering in his chest faltered, slowed; grew doubtful, uncertain. This was not what he wanted—to clash and heave and rise and fall, to feel the pain of nerves and blood vessels breaking—
—war paint in the blood of your enemies, the slow tickling as it pools around the base of your horn—
But it was too late to back down now. The one baptized in blood had already turned to face him, had already seen him, and had already marked him for destruction. They would dance. When he walked out into the clearing, to the backdrop of the red spray from the waterfall, he had sealed his fate. He had taken up the challenge, and now, he had chosen not to run.
So he steeled himself, tongue playing against the cold crystal, head swaying.
He had been here once before, and now, snow covered the rocks. He was off-balance with a fucking staff weighing on his jaw and crippling the mobility of his untrained neck. He had made himself a prime target: a fine, fat, spotted sitting duck. A fine, fat, spotted sitting unenthusiastic duck to boot. He could already see it in his mind, Öde's vicious courage like a wildfire in the night compared to the drab, dreary passionless movements of Mauja.
Vicious courage would win, as a forest gave way beneath the onslaught of flames; adrenaline gave the upper hand. Fire and ice. He felt cold. Drained. Old.
His foe was running, charging. Blue eyes flitted down to dark hooves thundering into newfallen snow; cloven. Of course. He could lodge against rocks, grip the terrain, in a way Mauja couldn't. Mauja wanted to burn—to burn the spaces between them, to sear his own skin, to—well, anything, to get his pulse thrumming with fury and anticipation again, but nothing—nothing—happened. He'd thought he'd had the whole fire-bird thing down.
And then it was too late to think: too late to do anything, because the unfairly sleek and handsome stallion was practically in his face.
Öde was going right, and Mauja's neck bent, tracking him, the staff held level in his mouth; and then Öde was going left, and Mauja's neck and body bent, but he had a whole damn-long weight to balance in his jaws and the quick bitch made it past his defense, fortunately sweeping his head above the staff and failing to knock it out of Mauja's mouth. But that was about the only positive thing as he scrambled to the right in the snow—black horn tip slicing into pristine white skin, a siren going off in his mind—but he stumbled against a rock and dipped down, nostrils widening in a pained exhale as the tip of the horn slid free of his neck and into his mane. Blood trickled out, ruby red, a vertical line drawn across his neck. At least the pain spiked his system with adrenaline.
He needed to disengage, get away—get the fuck away, from this fucking madness he'd thrust himself into—gods he hated it, hated it, hated it, and he was starting forward as the hooves came out. One smacked him solidly in the haunch, the other struck the back of his thigh and slid off rather harmlessly.
And the little cretin bellowed, like he was some oh so cool warrior—the sound an affront to Mauja's ears, causing them to try and delve deeper into his thick neck. Well fuck you too, he thought, managing to complete his stride forward: his leg bore weight but complained like someone had started a fire in it, and his neck stung. The cut wasn't that deep, but long enough, filling his nose with the metallic tang of blood.
You're useless, Diego told him cheerfully, and he was inclined to agree. He had come here to swing his scythe around, but what was he doing? Taking all the shit Öde shoved down his throat without complaining.
Screw that.
As fast as he could he swung himself to the left and attempted to close on Öde's right side. Mauja swung his head to the left. Blood pressed out of the wound in his neck. The staff swung too, a low arc rising, its trajectory heading for the underside of Öde's barrel; he hoped to steer it clear of the hellion's front-legs and send it straight into his belly.
In a cold hush the scythe's blade flickered into life.
At the end of his swing Mauja threw his head up and back, hoping to angle the blade so it would slide into the other's body with minimum effort and cut him open.
Mauja was a savage: a frigid, silent savage, with a complete disregard for the fact that it was rude to attempt to kill strangers.
[ 1/3 || @Öde || 797 words. ]
Not entirely sure what the weather is like, could you perhaps find some picture of how much you imagining it snowing, blowing etc? ^^ So we're in the same boat!
First draft of this was 996 words. Grrrr. This post is so butchered it's not even funny. :/
The heart thundering in his chest faltered, slowed; grew doubtful, uncertain. This was not what he wanted—to clash and heave and rise and fall, to feel the pain of nerves and blood vessels breaking—
—war paint in the blood of your enemies, the slow tickling as it pools around the base of your horn—
But it was too late to back down now. The one baptized in blood had already turned to face him, had already seen him, and had already marked him for destruction. They would dance. When he walked out into the clearing, to the backdrop of the red spray from the waterfall, he had sealed his fate. He had taken up the challenge, and now, he had chosen not to run.
So he steeled himself, tongue playing against the cold crystal, head swaying.
He had been here once before, and now, snow covered the rocks. He was off-balance with a fucking staff weighing on his jaw and crippling the mobility of his untrained neck. He had made himself a prime target: a fine, fat, spotted sitting duck. A fine, fat, spotted sitting unenthusiastic duck to boot. He could already see it in his mind, Öde's vicious courage like a wildfire in the night compared to the drab, dreary passionless movements of Mauja.
Vicious courage would win, as a forest gave way beneath the onslaught of flames; adrenaline gave the upper hand. Fire and ice. He felt cold. Drained. Old.
His foe was running, charging. Blue eyes flitted down to dark hooves thundering into newfallen snow; cloven. Of course. He could lodge against rocks, grip the terrain, in a way Mauja couldn't. Mauja wanted to burn—to burn the spaces between them, to sear his own skin, to—well, anything, to get his pulse thrumming with fury and anticipation again, but nothing—nothing—happened. He'd thought he'd had the whole fire-bird thing down.
And then it was too late to think: too late to do anything, because the unfairly sleek and handsome stallion was practically in his face.
Öde was going right, and Mauja's neck bent, tracking him, the staff held level in his mouth; and then Öde was going left, and Mauja's neck and body bent, but he had a whole damn-long weight to balance in his jaws and the quick bitch made it past his defense, fortunately sweeping his head above the staff and failing to knock it out of Mauja's mouth. But that was about the only positive thing as he scrambled to the right in the snow—black horn tip slicing into pristine white skin, a siren going off in his mind—but he stumbled against a rock and dipped down, nostrils widening in a pained exhale as the tip of the horn slid free of his neck and into his mane. Blood trickled out, ruby red, a vertical line drawn across his neck. At least the pain spiked his system with adrenaline.
He needed to disengage, get away—get the fuck away, from this fucking madness he'd thrust himself into—gods he hated it, hated it, hated it, and he was starting forward as the hooves came out. One smacked him solidly in the haunch, the other struck the back of his thigh and slid off rather harmlessly.
And the little cretin bellowed, like he was some oh so cool warrior—the sound an affront to Mauja's ears, causing them to try and delve deeper into his thick neck. Well fuck you too, he thought, managing to complete his stride forward: his leg bore weight but complained like someone had started a fire in it, and his neck stung. The cut wasn't that deep, but long enough, filling his nose with the metallic tang of blood.
You're useless, Diego told him cheerfully, and he was inclined to agree. He had come here to swing his scythe around, but what was he doing? Taking all the shit Öde shoved down his throat without complaining.
Screw that.
As fast as he could he swung himself to the left and attempted to close on Öde's right side. Mauja swung his head to the left. Blood pressed out of the wound in his neck. The staff swung too, a low arc rising, its trajectory heading for the underside of Öde's barrel; he hoped to steer it clear of the hellion's front-legs and send it straight into his belly.
In a cold hush the scythe's blade flickered into life.
At the end of his swing Mauja threw his head up and back, hoping to angle the blade so it would slide into the other's body with minimum effort and cut him open.
Mauja was a savage: a frigid, silent savage, with a complete disregard for the fact that it was rude to attempt to kill strangers.
[ 1/3 || @Öde || 797 words. ]
Not entirely sure what the weather is like, could you perhaps find some picture of how much you imagining it snowing, blowing etc? ^^ So we're in the same boat!
First draft of this was 996 words. Grrrr. This post is so butchered it's not even funny. :/
