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Where was Snö? The equine did not like being away from her, did not like being separated, not when he was at the mercy of a hundred piercing horns all too ready to cut right through his heart. Here he was, in the Frostbreath Steppe, slicing a steady path through the rock and ice. It was cold, not as cold as Frostfall, but still bitter fingers tugging at your ears and lips, and when the wind began moaning, it went right through you like a freezing ghost, snatching your mane and twisting your tail.
Bacchus shivered, cold water running metaphorically down his spine. There was only the crunch of snow under his hooves, white powder being compressed to leave hoofprints behind him. Not deep, for he was small, but prominent in the frozen tundra that remained an icescape year-round. Shoots of grass, brittle yellows with faded greens, pressed up against the frozen earth, disrupting the uniform gray-and-white making up the land. Sunshine, weak sunshine, filtered in from a thick blanket of gray clouds drifting in the sky. Not the yellow of the forest light, but a watery white that seemed as cold and impressionable as Snö herself.
He continued on his winding path, a forlorn little figure, a black chesspiece on a board of frosted glass. A pawn, in fact. Useful and plain. Necessary at times, and it had very good uses. It was disposable, but you would prefer it to remain on your chessboard.
Breath came frosted from his lips, tumultuous clouds that twisted into the air in forms of dragons and wolves and unicorns, all manner of wondrous, exotic, terribly dangerous beasts. Bacchus slowed to a halt upon a slight rock outcropping, positioned a touch higher than the land around it. There was a rick-tick-clop as he dragged a dirty black hoof across it, leaving a slender, long mark in the stone. Dark brown eyes squinted in his tan face, half-shutting to look in the distance. What was that? A mare? Black as night, a horn of ebony and obsidian. He shifted his weight, drawing his feet under himself, standing taller. Nostrils flared- no, he was downwind, and it did not smell of the Plague his lady Snö belonged to. At least the slave thought Snö belonged to.
"You cannot pass, unicorn!" He called, running light-footed across the steppe towards her. Even if it was a half-hearted fight, Bacchus would at least spar with her to turn the black mare away gently. Never had he been trained as a fighting slave, as one of the barbarians in Prisporian throw into pits to attack with savage eyes. Some have been gifted with armor, with spikes and dangerous things. They have been the ones unaware of anything, not speaking, hardly equine- grunting creatures who did brunt work and were little more than handsome looking, totally savage creatures. "Care for a spar, lady?" The slave questions, halting four or five feet away from her. She's larger, yes, but even so, surely he must at least try. He cannot smell any others of the Plague to turn her away, and this black unicorn has a scent of foreign beings.
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WC: 527
Attack: 0/2 ---
OOC: You can start with Aisha attacking first if you want.
i'm a COWARD, a LIAR, and totally, utterly pathetic- I ADMIT IT
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[JUDGE] night and day [aisha]
