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The wind was biting; the air was chilly. The night would fall soon, heavy and dark, smoky and silent, melancholy in its shawl of stars. Circe watched her breath fog from her nose, seemingly transfixed by the simple motions made by the smoke of her breathing. Her eyes were frozen; her shoulders twitched; tremors ran the length of her barrel. For once that magnificent crown of a horn was lowered, bowed in respect or fear, she did not know. She was vacant now; the shadowmere was busy gathering her wits about her, letting the wrath of battle settle into her breast. There. Here it was; an icy pressure settling itself upon her heart. It was agonizing in its own way, titillating, making her flesh crawl and her skin unusually sensitive to the chill of the autumn evening.

Was Circe afraid? Mayhaps she was in a way, though surely it was not the fear of cowards with tails tucked between their legs in shame. This was an awareness, and anticipation of things. Her restlessness was evident, and though the sorceress was unsure of the source of her agitation, the agitation remained regardless. She must move herself; she must shift her weight; she must shake the idleness of her limbs from herself and hone her body, her mind, her soul for the purpose the Grey set upon her. Circe was an Executioner, and it was high time for an execution. She must sharpen her blade.

As was customary for the relatively new recruit, Circe didn’t know much about the stallion. This lack of familiarity with her shieldmates was maddening; how could she trust her back to these fools if they proved themselves to be literal fools? Yet, as she considered it, Circe supposed it was right that she knew nothing of her fake foe. It simulated the unknown of a battle nicely; it shouldn’t be expected of the shadowmere to anticipate the life and loves of a strange opponent. She should expect the unexpected—it would save her life.

He’s a legend, you know, whispered a betraying corner of Circe’s mind; she shivered, haunted by the idea. He was certainly notorious for his prowess, though the knowledge didn’t make Circe shirk away from her destination; she was resolute in her decision. It only invigorated her, and caused her sensitive skin to crawl ever so much more at the thought. She snorted heavily, stamping once, twice. She couldn’t wait any longer; the suspense was killing her. When one was ready for battle, impatience was a common feature; she must strike while her irons were hot. Taking a deep breath of the brittle, Orangemoon air, she bellowed out her challenge, and her voice did echo against the vaults and chambers of the Foot Hills valleys:

“ARCHIBALD!”

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[ W/C: 480
800 Word Limit
Teaching Spar
3 attack posts with 1 closing defense
No companions or Magic
Surroundings: In a valley between two hills; terrain much like the foothills. Sundown, almost night time, rapidly fading light. No breeze, very chilly air, somewhat damp underfoot. ]

speaking