Яikyn

The dark mare arrives, offering words, rather than swords. It’s a good sign, I suppose, that she truly hasn’t held a grudge against me for using my magic on her, after all, but only my deer takes her freely given forgiveness for what it is, and appreciates it. I, on the other hoof, am quickly taken in with her presence, as many young men often are, too caught up in the conversation to take note or care of the fact that she was simply joking about putting a blade in me, not actually doing so.

A smile easily born of my unusually high mood makes its way to my lips, an ear fluttering back and my own humored snort (certainly more deflated than her chortle) offered in response; Duir tilts his crown with my own, his verdant eyes meeting the mare’s with gratitude, for her easy forgiveness of my bad behavior some days before. Though I’m doing better today than I have been, there is still a bit of melancholy draped over my entire being. I do my best to disguise it behind smiles and jokes.

I’m tired of people looking at me with worry – not that Wessex is one of them, of course. She doesn’t know me well enough to know that, right now, I’m not really me at all. Maybe I won’t ever be again.

"Can’t watch my ass while fighting, unfortunately. The General has sent me to test your skill," I reply, a quirk of a smile crossing my face at the peculiarity of calling my best friend by his title, rather than his name; if I’d known, however, that one of the options mentally listed by my spar-mate was whoring, well, the bruises for the sake of my blade-brother’s bidding would have had to wait. However, I instead quickly deduce that he hadn’t told poor Wessex a thing about the ordeal, which also leads me to the logical conclusion that the surprise must be part of the plan.

After all, war didn’t politely invite one over for tea before it bowled over your front lines, did it?

"Don’t hold back!" I call to her as I surge forward, my golden rapier angled ahead of me, the bronze shine of my shoulder armor catching the afternoon sun with the golden glimmer of my hooves as I charge for the slightly taller, tribal marked mare. While I might have reserved some of the battle against a person who claimed to be anything other than a warrior, designed to take blows, I expect nothing more than the best Wessex can offer, having trained with a real army for a brief stint in the past.

No one left those training grounds unscathed. No one would leave mine that way, either, and, for some reason, I think the storm gray mare is just the sort of woman to understand that way of being better than most.

The desire to press her to the fullest extent of her ability does not mean I charge in like a wrecking ball. While there might have been a time that I’d have brazenly charged her like I would a smaller foe, life has taught me a few things about the thick ones. Broken ribs, lacerations, and more had left me entirely sure that, while I might certainly use strategy, speed, and magic to my advantage against such a foe, I was not a match for the strength they possessed. That the many-horned mare is also much more compact in build than the gargantuan men I’d combated also lends me to the thought that she might be more nimble than they were, too, making her, as far as soldiers go, damn near a perfect specimen.

I don’t want to come to blows with her; though I’m sure I could run in and out and deliver a dozen blows to her one, a single strike from one of her meaty limbs would hurt like hell. I’m not about to tempt fate, if I don’t have to. Coming for her head long, wondering how one blocked a frontal assault with peripheral horns (having never faced such an opponent before), I also try my best to remain aware of my footing, and placement of figure to her own. Being able to get out of dodge is about the only chance I have, and in order to utilize my exit points, I have to know where they are.

Reaching with my blade to strike at her right shoulder, hoping to land a strike where her leather armor does not defend her flesh, I pull my head away, and follow it right at a canter, allowing my figure to fluidly move about at a forty five degree angle. Hesitating mid-step, I buck outwards, hoping to land a good, solid kick on her shoulder, neck, or face, not worrying as much about the armor (which shouldn’t defend her from the bludgeoning force of my hooves as much as it does my horn, from personal experience). No matter the result, I pull away and turn back around as quickly as I can, not eager to keep my ass exposed to her for long.

She had, after all, threatened its well being quite audibly before all of this began.

Duir, meanwhile, has followed my charge with slight delay, placing a fair amount of distance between himself, and the skirmish. Watching, as he always does in my fights, he keeps his attention focused for the call to utilize his magic, or to leap in and strike (only if absolutely necessary, he insists outside of battle, believing fighting to be entirely barbaric). He has also decided, on his own, that he will be the one to run and get a healer, if either of the two idiots brawling before him skewered the other in such a way which merited immediate attention…

Attack 1/3 | 977 Words

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