Too many of my soldiers had gone absent from their post, our numbers were dwindling by the day. Just like everything else—people came in and went out. We harbored a steady flow of travelers seeking shelter, but few true members to boost our numbers. With such scarce few in my command to control the valley…I feared that an attack from the outside world would happen within months rather than years. Our fragile neutrality didn’t seem promising with the

Northern unicorns, they obviously weren’t pleased with our decision.
There was a snippet of good tiding, Dragon’s Throat had accepted my offer for an alliance; but they also lay a world away. Hard traveling for those who couldn’t fly and further still when the idea of invasion plagued my mind—could the fire reach us in time to provide a saving inferno? Thrice I’d seen the Throat prevail, despite its members; I’d see this herd through a time just as dark if necessary. With or without an alliance…

Until such a threat showed its face, all we could do was train. I looped toward the dusty ground, a spot between the meadow and largest river; nestled in a private thicket that bore no hindering canopy overhead. Earth was noticeably mucked up, full of scuffle marks from other warriors sweating and bleeding upon it. I landed roughly and at a canter, daggers scattered vanishing gold in my wake. A high noon sun rose above my spine, welcome to yet another muggy Tallsun day.

OOC:

Setting: High noon, no overhanging branches over the training ground. It’s a hot, clear day.

No magic
No companions

None other than our Legatus, Rostislav breaks through the brush and bramble. I glance up, folding my wings and settling into the golden dust. Corners twitch, the beginnings of a smirk form across my muzzle toward the wayward stallion whose short stature still out measured me. His little companion, having grown larger since I’d last laid eyes upon her, is siting by and by—shredding some poor forest creature. I glanced her way and offered the little whelp a nod before returning my gaze to Rostislav as he draws closer and speaks.

Crown dips, mimicking his respect with equal measure. “Aye! Tis an honor to test ye at long last!” I couldn’t always stand by and watch my warriors spar with their kin; I’d been raised in the tides of battle and thus made it a point to at least make myself available for their practice. “Good for both,” cranium nods in outward agreement, touching chin to the gem below my breast.

Formal regard is nearly complete, when we look up at each other it appears to be with the same calculated measure. He was gazing upon my frame, likely judging the obvious strengths and searching for a quick weakness that could be flushed free. The smirk upon my maw didn’t fade, it grew, “Measure carefully, Legatus.” I thought wistfully; it had been awhile since anyone dared step forward to vanquish my power, I welcomed the attempt and practice.

Knowingly I lean right, shifting my weight purposely and tightening the grip of feathers against barrel to shield them from damage. Rostislav turns and begins to circle, the smile fades from my face, and our games begin. Flesh angled toward the opposite side, I push in the other direction, mirroring a circle. Ears are high and standing like stern soldiers at the ready, my fleshy throat is arched, and normally passive gaze is sharp, watchful.

It is Rostislav who makes the first move, he comes flying at me. A wake of dust springs from behind, but it is dust that is easily avoided given my position. However, something had to be done with the weighted beast coming headlong. His silver locks fly around the evil looking spears that sprout from his brow. Wings resist their urge to take toward heaven, instead I suddenly dip sideways toward his left, using smaller size and years of maneuverability to avoid any attempt at stabbing and gashing my flesh.

Teeth slide free from their fleshy fold and snap out like a coiled snake toward the juncture of meat around the top of his neck, where hair meets fur. They seek to claim mark upon the pretty tendrils that are flying in wild directions. Hindquarters flex and carry this heavy bundle into a slightly twisted halfrear while face is snapping, my forelimbs flail out; golden daggers moving to strike with clear purpose toward knocking his skull on the opposite side of the battlefield.

OCC:

Attack (1/3)
Word count: 487

Rostislav is a taller breed, (as are most of my competitors) every bit of his fleshy tank is rippling muscle, disciplined and tough as iron. This made agility my strongest boon; I couldn’t hope to ever overpower such a brute by strength alone. My ivories close across their mark, pinching the soft flesh just beside a point of what lovers consider painful when their rowdy mounts nipped with lustful intention to drive pleasure higher. Aye, we danced to an older tune, the sweet smell of perspiration rising from heated skin is our perfume, and the rapid pace of breath, that disheveled grunt of a pained opponent, our tempo. That bitter taste of male musk is upon my tongue, ebony lips slide further back, crumbling my face in a grimace as teeth jerk out tiny fragments of fuzz from his jacket.

Our pelts had to surely be a sheen of dust and dirt with the swath of grit flying around two sets of stamping feet. I squinted against the glare of sunlight and unclean air.

My forelimbs also hit with positive blow, a sweltering fever runs through them, up toward my forearm when knees collide forcefully with the angled side of his head—(thankfully missing the tipped horns in said process.) At this point all emotion has become basic and nearly animalistic, everything else is written off as a distraction…there are no other sounds I focus on, aside from scuffling dirt and his rasping breath as we struggled.

He’d pulled away first, tipping head aside to avoid further abuse from my flailing daggers. Molars unhinge themselves, retracting purposefully to avoid unnecessary damage to my Legatus and kinsman. It wasn’t my intention to harm this fellow, I merely sought to test his abilities. (Though his intentions where yet unfamiliar to me.) Like a scaled vermin curled angrily upon the ground, Rostislav swung his head toward my exposed neckline. Pronged points aimed for fragile tissue, aimed with the promise of concrete pain.

I had a split moment to react, hindquarters crumbled this body to the ground. Landing smoothly upon all fours, I jerked sharply right, crown lowering at a left angle over throatlatch to offer itself as a shield against his blood seeking attempt. My quick motions saved a possible wound that would have been hard to recover, (given my unprotected position), but I didn’t avoid contact. His antlers swung round, bending to follow my retreat; the tips of those spears fell against the high curve of my left shoulder, scrapping away bits of fur and scratching the surface with a shallow line down the length of that shoulder until it finally hit with a sharp, clank, as horn struck against solid steel. Heart raced ahead, tripped into a faster pace when I realized that one pulsebeat later, and his rack could have pierced a rather unattractive hole. My shoulder would be sore, as it would have had I scrapped against a barbed rock—ebony hair would grow back eventually, but at least my flesh was still in-tact (for now.)

I’d scrambled aside and taken precious little time to plan or question, tis the only reason why my blood hadn’t been spilled by this worthy opponent. Gaze narrowed, hardening as the sting of his attack filtered into my brain, brows doted into tight knots…this stocky fellow was going to give me a reason to stay interested. Quarters bunched up again, this time instead of rising to the sky I swung head far right and down—the only visible warning he’d receive for what was to come. Our battle ground is hard packed, baked by sunlight and trampled upon by many a soldier. My feet found it relatively sturdy and quite easy to glide upon. (Considering this body had grown used to dancing upon softer turf.)

I shifted the front of my body further right, twisting away from him, retreating only a pace or so aside. Cranium thrust down and quarters thrust up, hindfeet violently flew out with every intention to graze the left side of his (pristine) chest, barrel or whatever body part happened to fall prey to my bowed feet. An unintentionally gasp lifted past my lips from the effort it took to rise and thrust hard.

OOC:

Attack (2/3)

Word count: 705

He was correct to think that I was curbing true potential; the power which surged in these limbs was like a gentle caress compared to a raw energy which could be released. It would never be my intent to break this family down, not even when one took a traitorous turn; and though they might seek blood for wounding them, forcing their feet to dance this awkward show of power. I'd never truly mean harm without heavenly creed demanding a price of plasma.

Had I truly wanted to bring Rostislav to his knees though these games would cease. Capable feathered limbs would open, spreading toward my birthright, (which was the atmosphere itself.) This body would become an unreachable target that could bend the very earth beneath toes to consume flesh. The grains stirring underneath our daggers would no longer have free access to cling upon my coat with grim and grit. instead, an authoritative layer of steel would slide forth. Covering fragile points. Sand, (which was everywhere) would become a tool and powerful ally. Fina was also trained in the art of battle, her wings didn’t just give the appearance of fire – they could burn flesh.

My golden feet found their mark, a satisfying grunt of pain fills these ears with both pleasure and a stirring of faint victory. I’d struck true against the solid wall of his barrel and it was lucky that hindfeet were solidly placed. His thick hide was like a tempered mountain, barely yielding, and though I felt the vibrations up to the point of nape, it doesn’t hinder movement for more than a heartbeat. By then my quarters had already begun to slide down into the dust cloud below; settling, steadying. I slipped toward earth, opening my right wing halfway for balance while raising skull and relishing the feel of pounding blood rushing back toward lower potions instead of dulling my senses by clotting ears.

This seasoned mind wasn’t so faint to think that my Legatus was finished, nay, I'd already halfway crumbled hindquarters when he attempted to strike the painted flesh along rump. Forefeet unlocked when hindfeet hit dirt, they shuffled this frame ahead to push a little distance between us. His hot breath came chasing on, millimeters from my right hindleg. Bleached tendrils slashed back and forth; smacking dual colored flanks sweetly and causing the muscles to tremble. They sought to protect by possibly stinging his horned mug should the draft boy continue this chase, while also pouring fuel to the fire that stirred his ambition.

I spun right, slicing my right appendages back to its protected position and thrusting toward my opponent’s right side. The fleshy muscles on my proud neck arched, bending head toward throat, attempting to protect the fragile folds of flesh during this attack. Honeyed gaze is narrow and watchful, paying mindful attention to that dangerous set of spears. Forelimbs quickened the pace and hindquarters bunched up, I thrust ahead attempting to push muscled right shoulder into his breast or adjacent shoulder--- teeth slide free, opening as my neck slithered forth simultaneously with the thrust. They opened to hopefully pinch into the side of his neck that was within reach.

OOC:

Attack (3/3)

Word count: 531