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08-07-2016, 05:33 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The butt end of the long staff swung through the charged air; it whispered, softly, quietly, the first tentative hum of a battle hymn.
But his blood did not answer. There was no slow, insidious crescendo of a violent song in his veins—only silence as the crystal staff rattled against a black hock, sending a tremor down its length and into his mouth. Not even the painful wrench on his jaws, the grind of quartz against his teeth and tongue, evoked much of a response in him; it wasn't that he was numb, so much as disinterested. With a distasteful grimace he let the weapon tumble from his mouth. He didn't even bother to press his advantage as Sacre stumbled away into the storm-gray shadows ahead of him, merely rolled his tongue and poked the sharp spot in the corner of his mouth where the sensitive skin had been snagged by crystal. It sent a jolt of pain through him, a taste of blood, and he took a moment to offer the staff a sour look.
To be completely fair, Mauja wasn't used to hitting things with a staff, so it wasn't all that strange that the impact had not only dislodged the weapon from his mouth, but also hurt it.
Whatever, he thought with a grunt and a flick of his tail, trying to remember what the fuck he was doing, why he was there at all, how to care—
Why was he doing this? Time and again, why did he do this?
Ghosts chased themselves across his piercing blue eyes as he glanced at the approaching kitsune, the smell of blood rank in his sensitive nose. He did this because he cared, right? Because he wanted to help Sacre? Because he wanted to make his body remember the fine, precise dance of war, to better protect his homeland should the armies come for it again?
Noble, good intentions—so why couldn't he make himself move? Why couldn't he ignite, get out of the fucking way, give it his best?
The harsh winds whipped tears into his narrowed eyes, and with a disdain whose source he could not name Mauja moved away from the bounding many-tailed fox. His left thigh protested, but the flare of pain felt muted and distant, as if it wasn't quite his; he wobbled on the first step, limped noticeably on the second, and grunted as the sparking whip licked his hide with a faint touch. A jolt went through him, ears briefly perking forward before flattening again. Ouch. He was glad he hadn't been closer to her when she struck.
He stopped moving, locked in place, left hind hoof resting on its tip to ease the muscle. "What," he began to say as Sacre turned, blood marring his hock where some sharp point on the staff must've snagged the skin, "am I doing?" Teeth grabbed the skin on his right shoulder, pinched nerves tight, and he just stood there, feeling it throbthrobthrob in time with his haunch. The pain spiked each time his heart beat.
"I'm not very good at this, am I?" he offered whimsically, a little blood-mixed saliva pooled in one corner of his mouth. And still, he was just standing there with a piece of his skin painfully stuck between Sacre's teeth, not even able to feel any ounce of pride that the black's turn had, indeed, seemed slower than previous. So his plan had worked. So what? Oh, hey, it's storming, great day to stand around getting bitten—
The worst of it?
He was letting Sacre down. He was supposed to teach him something, and if one thing was true, it was this: your enemy didn't stand around and wait for you to beat the everliving shit out of them.
There were some warnings before he moved, though; he planted his left hind hoof back in the grass, soaking up the pain, and his gaze hardened. Then, he struck, quick and controlled like a viper; he threw his head to the right, angled it down, aiming to bury the tip—and only the tip—in Sacre's exposed neck.
[ 2/3 || 689 words || @Sacre ]
But his blood did not answer. There was no slow, insidious crescendo of a violent song in his veins—only silence as the crystal staff rattled against a black hock, sending a tremor down its length and into his mouth. Not even the painful wrench on his jaws, the grind of quartz against his teeth and tongue, evoked much of a response in him; it wasn't that he was numb, so much as disinterested. With a distasteful grimace he let the weapon tumble from his mouth. He didn't even bother to press his advantage as Sacre stumbled away into the storm-gray shadows ahead of him, merely rolled his tongue and poked the sharp spot in the corner of his mouth where the sensitive skin had been snagged by crystal. It sent a jolt of pain through him, a taste of blood, and he took a moment to offer the staff a sour look.
To be completely fair, Mauja wasn't used to hitting things with a staff, so it wasn't all that strange that the impact had not only dislodged the weapon from his mouth, but also hurt it.
Whatever, he thought with a grunt and a flick of his tail, trying to remember what the fuck he was doing, why he was there at all, how to care—
Why was he doing this? Time and again, why did he do this?
Ghosts chased themselves across his piercing blue eyes as he glanced at the approaching kitsune, the smell of blood rank in his sensitive nose. He did this because he cared, right? Because he wanted to help Sacre? Because he wanted to make his body remember the fine, precise dance of war, to better protect his homeland should the armies come for it again?
Noble, good intentions—so why couldn't he make himself move? Why couldn't he ignite, get out of the fucking way, give it his best?
The harsh winds whipped tears into his narrowed eyes, and with a disdain whose source he could not name Mauja moved away from the bounding many-tailed fox. His left thigh protested, but the flare of pain felt muted and distant, as if it wasn't quite his; he wobbled on the first step, limped noticeably on the second, and grunted as the sparking whip licked his hide with a faint touch. A jolt went through him, ears briefly perking forward before flattening again. Ouch. He was glad he hadn't been closer to her when she struck.
He stopped moving, locked in place, left hind hoof resting on its tip to ease the muscle. "What," he began to say as Sacre turned, blood marring his hock where some sharp point on the staff must've snagged the skin, "am I doing?" Teeth grabbed the skin on his right shoulder, pinched nerves tight, and he just stood there, feeling it throbthrobthrob in time with his haunch. The pain spiked each time his heart beat.
"I'm not very good at this, am I?" he offered whimsically, a little blood-mixed saliva pooled in one corner of his mouth. And still, he was just standing there with a piece of his skin painfully stuck between Sacre's teeth, not even able to feel any ounce of pride that the black's turn had, indeed, seemed slower than previous. So his plan had worked. So what? Oh, hey, it's storming, great day to stand around getting bitten—
The worst of it?
He was letting Sacre down. He was supposed to teach him something, and if one thing was true, it was this: your enemy didn't stand around and wait for you to beat the everliving shit out of them.
There were some warnings before he moved, though; he planted his left hind hoof back in the grass, soaking up the pain, and his gaze hardened. Then, he struck, quick and controlled like a viper; he threw his head to the right, angled it down, aiming to bury the tip—and only the tip—in Sacre's exposed neck.
[ 2/3 || 689 words || @Sacre ]
