The Warlander doesn’t hear the Elephant King’s apology.

There are a plethora of things overwhelming his senses, attacking every sensation of his body until all the fibers of his muscles feel both acutely sharpened and dulled at the same time. The chaos of his black secrets and self-doubts riot in his mind, the haze of his eyes and ears straining to gauge the other stallion’s position and possible attack (never forgetting that this is a battle), but most of all, is the pain. The Sergeant’s chest aches and his side throbs—his skin is now saturated with sweat and sodden with blood. He can hear the steady drip, drip of his body’s lifeblood as it hits the forest floor, the morbid rhythm nearly in time with the hammering of his heart.

Lulled into a shallow haze by his physical exhaustion and the loss of blood, Rohan has almost forgotten that he had thrown his spear. Rolling his head beneath the weight of his antlers, green eyes suddenly open wide when a loud crack shatters through the cool morning air. Blinking rapidly to refocus his gaze on Tembovu, he sees a magnificent spray of glittering crystal. The king’s spear seems to have splintered against the force of his own weapon, tearing at the larger stallion’s mouth, and sending shards of glistening glass dancing across the moist grass.

As Tembovu turns his gaze to the Warlander, his black lips dribbling with blood, Rohan is suddenly afraid that the monarch will end their fight right then, when they have come so, so close. He is worried that Tembovu will look at him now and only see his injuries, and judge him incapable (unworthy) of finishing this to the end—that he is not strong enough to carry out the very burdens of his duty (and perhaps he isn’t).

Hairy limbs tremble from the warrior’s own weight, his eyes heavy as he stares at the Elephant King. So much doubt is held onto his shoulders (so much shame), that it almost surprises him when Tembovu moves. Rohan feels a swell of gratitude and pride that warms his cold uncertainties; indebted that Tembovu will not shame him into a forced defeat. They will finish this—together, this will end.

The king’s attack is more straightforward now, a simple and poetic finale to this bloodbath between friends.

With a throaty grunt of self-victory, Rohan manages to withstand Tembovu’s final blow. Catching the spiraled horn between the pale tines of his antlers with a rough jarring of bone against bone, the warrior sweeps his head slightly up and to the right (pushing more with the left side of his body, and trying to keep as much strain off his right side as possible), attempting to direct Tembovu’s horn so that it angles away from the majority of his face, instead grazing across his left cheek. The Warlander savors the hot sting (so miniscule compared to the raging fire of his other wounds), even managing a crooked smile as he stumbles back from the larger stallion.

His breaths are labored and he can barely remain upright, but past all the weariness and pain, there is joy in the warrior’s eyes. “Thank you, my king,” he rasps, we have done well.


“Speech.”
Attack: - final defense
WC: 557 according to AbiWord
Damage tracker: A bleeding, muscle-deep cut from the middle of his breast to the left point of his lower neck; a gash-turned-fillet-o-muscle from the right of his back to just above his right flank; and a streak of grazed skin across his left cheek.

ooc: I'm pretty sure it defaults to Tembovu because of the gap in HP, but if possible, I'd still love to be judged please! So I can tell how I did :3