Metallic. Bitter. The taste of his own attack hit him all too hard, the tangy reminisce of Miseal’s desire to keep Cera grounded stuck to his tongue like glue. He could feel the blood’s tendrils crawl down his throat, haunting and morbid. He let go of the wing instantly, spitting out the disgusting taste and the memories of blood that dared to rise with it. Not now, not now. He cried out, praying for distraction, knowing that the deep rooted ghosts of his past enjoyed to play when he was most vulnerable. Shaking away those thoughts of them, (who are they? Why was he suddenly scared of blood?) Miseal realized that he did not know the life at which wings could bring a Pegasus; he only knew that he was horned and Cera held an advantage over him that Miseal could not dare to allow. He understood now, perhaps his worst flaw of all; Miseal could not control the ferocious, dangerous need for victory, could not make a line between spar and battle. All he knew was, there was a fury of fire within him, his inner beast roamed unshackled, and his family awaited at the doors of victory. This was for them, he could not lose to the winged, even if he was a fellow, Miseal needed this.

His shoulder was in agony, but as the fire within him grew back to its treacherous heights, the pain dulled as the clockwork of his mind spun to regain the aurora of battle. His golden’s squint hard, searching, awaiting for Cera’s counterattack, the mass of Miseal’s limbs untangling as he attempted to find his balance. His size cost him in defending the clip upon his skin, a grunt releasing from his mouth as Cera landed a bite at the sensitive skin of his stifle, it was more of an annoying pain than it was awful, but curse his slowness. A man of Miseal’s height couldn’t have it all, and although he outmatched Cera in a few traits, the winged’s toned and skinner frame won against Miseal’s bulk.

Warmth seeped down his right leg, trailing down his dusty pillar as the bite wound fared its hello. His head whips to a retreating Cera, orbs sharp and attentive as he tries to figure out what the man might be conjuring, his gears prepared for charge by the golden boy's hand. Miseal's brow furrowed for a second, eyes falling upon the crippled wing that lain awkwardly at Cera’s side. Was that all Miseal was good at? Causing pain, harming, destroying that at which others lived on? Maybe he didn't do this spar for Anzanie, for Viserra, for the Throat, perhaps he followed along the lures of the animal that cried within him at times, begging to be released from Miseal’s controlling clutches. Here he was, throwing his mass against others, violently ripping at skin and doing everything he possibly could to destroy. The beast within him was smarter then his own damn mind, tricking him into thinking battle was for betterment when truly, deep down, war was release.

So he raged.

Time had escaped between his clutches and it seemed Cera had already attempted his attack, to Miseal’s luck he had missed it. After all, what was the point of running? Was it not a sign of surrender? Miseal had at least expected some sort of maneuver back to where Miseal had stood a charge even. Surely Cera should have known, even the violent animal inside him stopped at the wave of white.

Wasting no more time, the Chromed’s legs begun to work, tan hooves digging deep into the sands as he put in the most amount of effort into thrusting himself forward. Sore legs cry in misery with each pounding step, the soft and shifting ground of the throat only further placing Miseal in pain. He knows he cannot use his legs with his injuries (to stretch the skin in such a way, how awful) to lift him up or to try anything fancy, so the beast sets his target, bends his crowned head and charged. Oh how Miseal wanted to hit and hit hard. There was no stopping, not now, Miseal was too far gone, sanity slipping through the cracks in his shell, draining away until nothing sane could balance all the was not. Like pistons his legs work, the sand stinging his pelt and eyes as the freight train of a man galloped, the only obstacle to stop him was Cera. Training his body towards Cera, eyes squinting in the dark shroud of night, Miseal shifted his body slightly left, aiming to crash his horn and power into Cera's left hip and side. The only thing he could hear now was the tainted laughter of the devil within. Oh what fun.



"Talk"

WC: 800
Attack: 2/3
Damage Tracker: Cut on right shoulder, bite on right stile
Setting: Dragon's throat, just outside of the borders. It's on sand and slightly chilly as well as windy. The moon and stars are pretty bright, but the overall setting is semi-dark.

MISAEL