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06-05-2014, 01:22 AM
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Torleik
The beard of glory... During his short tenure as the Basin’s general, Torleik had been hard at work putting his newfound position of power to use for the herd’s benefit. Immediately, he had set about conferring with herd members for training spars and seeking out his cousin, the Engineer, to craft warbanners that their enemies might know their defeat as synonymous with the symbol of the Basin. Of course, it had taken some time to get going, as the damnable Regime had seen fit to ambush him. Outnumbered four to one and with his companion’s safety at stake, what was he to do but allow his own capture? He’d bested Morir in single combat and won his freedom; surely those here did not still hold that against him. But he did wonder, and the thought gnawed at his insides that the fighters in the herd had no faith in him. Torleik sought to remedy that by his actions – but it seemed there was not enough time. A haze of rain obscured the flat disc of the sun that hung drearily in the sky, the air humid and thicker than the general would have liked. Though he was irked at being prevented from working today, Torleik tried to focus on the positives of resting and spending relaxing time with Irelyn. So busy had he been of late that he’d missed her growing a few centimeters and her plumage coming in a little more maturely. She was getting older, and like a father, the rabicano stallion felt guilty for letting the details pass him by. So he watched his companion stalk a small grasshopper inside the cave they called home, a light smile on his lips, amused by the way her tail twitched to and fro. The reverie was utterly shattered when a voice suddenly boomed out the Bloodskald’s name and Torleik’s gaze snapped up, eyes narrowed as a challenge was issued for his position. Who was the insolent maggot that saw himself worthy to dethrone the dual-horned demon so soon? Rising, a slow-burning anger kindled in his snow-drift chest, the stallion trotted forth from his cave, Irelyn taking to the sky above him. He could easily make out a figure through the thin sheets of rain that quenched the thirsty ground of the rarely-wetted Basin and his approach was direct, each step freezing a wide patch of the slick ground around his hooves. He halted some distance in front of the slightly taller blood bay with the singular, sanguine horn, the sky darkening around them, air growing slightly colder. The general’s magic was still raw and tethered in many ways to his emotions, and though no icy storm swirled in the sky as of yet, it brooded in the air just as insult and anger incubated in Torleik’s breast. This one. He barely knew his name. Torleik had seen him perhaps twice at herd meetings, but nowhere else. What makes you worthy to take my place? The thought ground around in his brain like bone against bone, demanding an answer, demanding relief. It would find no satisfaction – at least not in words. “Déodat, is it?” he asked, voice as cold as the glacial hue of his eyes. “You have chosen poorly.” Such was the only warning the older male would proffer the younger; words had little place in a battle like this despite the many he could think to spit in his challenger’s face. The rabicano didn’t need to look up to know Irelyn was wheeling overhead, agitated. Her small voice broke through the seething froth of his mind. ”What do?” she asked, aware he was angry but unsure of where this was going. The young owl-griffin had never been in combat before. ”Fight,” was his reply. He felt Irelyn steel her tiny resolve and impatiently await the commencement of battle. Seconds dragged by, the passage of time seemingly slogging through the mud that was quickly forming around them, each tick of the universal clock feeling longer than the last as Torleik sized up his opponent. Déodat looked faster, but not stronger. It would be rather like fighting Ulrik, he decided. The stockier male dug his back hooves into the mud, stomping a foreleg angrily against the ground and causing a sudden formation of ice beneath that hoof. Springing forward, Torleik closed the gap between them and charged at Déodat head-on, rising on his hind legs and kicking both front hooves violently at the challenger’s face, intending to strike him viciously in the head and break his horn if possible. "talk talk talk" ---------------------------------------------------------------- WC: 755 | (1/4) Torleik charges at Deodat's front, rearing and trying to strike Deodat's face with his forelegs/front hooves. |
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No man is an island.
Pixel by: Tamme :D
Pixel by: Tamme :D
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