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06-12-2014, 12:22 AM
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Torleik
The beard of glory... Odette’s yelp demanded both stallions’ attention; such was the raw pain in the vocalization of her injury. Torleik felt tendrils of guilt slither up the pedestal of pride Irelyn’s attack had set within his chest, wet, oily things that made him feel dirty inside. They were but children, these two companions; children should not bleed and suffer for the foolish pride of their bonded. He wished he could have saved the pup from potential maiming, wished that Irelyn could have simply kept the hound distracted and not gotten herself caught, wished that none of this had to be as it was. Déodat’s challenge he could live with, but bloodshed and the heavy price it exacted from those who engaged in the violent practice were not lessons these younglings needed to learn so early in their still-forming lives. Relief that Irelyn was finally released washed over his frayed nerves like an arctic balm, only to be replaced with a sense of urgency. ”Are you wounded? Bleeding?” the Bloodskald demanded while Déodat’s attention was taken by his own companion. It was a foolish, if rhetorical question, but he was not considering the most logical forms of discourse at the current point in time. The way Ireyln held her wing out told him the answer, but to his little owl-griffin’s credit, she tried to put on a brave face for him. ”Ow. No…fly…?” she asked tremulously, not understanding why she couldn’t get liftoff, why it hurt so much. His heart ached, replete with love over her toughness and desire to remain useful, but he couldn’t allow her to stay. ”Hide, Irelyn,” he begged, mental voice strained and hoarse. ”Get away from here. Away from him.” She wasn’t moving. ”GO!” Torleik thundered harshly, feeling his heart crack when her pain and fear amplified, not comprehending why he was so angry with her when she thought she’d done well. But it could not be helped, not now, not when this deranged bastard was charging at him again, giving Torleik a new way to bleed. A satisfied, pained grunt escaped the Bloodskald’s chest as he bodyslammed Déodat’s insubordinate ass, forcing the single-horned stallion to scramble for purchase on the slick, unforgiving terrain. As his enemy was tiring, so was the Bloodskald, and the raging ice storm around them was slowly lessening, the sharp shards of hail and ice softening to a wet, cold, slushy kind of sleet that stung far less than its more solid brethren. For a moment, Torleik hung his head, gaze downcast, and he snorted. He had utterly forgotten about his seemingly endless ability to freeze the ground around his hooves. Little good it did him here, he mused, the world around him fading out, external sound disappearing, sensation dropping away from his brain’s interpretation of his own body. The dual-horned demon could hear his own breathing, his heartbeat, the groan of his wearied muscles. He was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and he wanted it to end. Something told him this battle approached its nadir, the decrescendo that would crown victory and spawn spurned defeat, and he was so close he could almost taste it. Or was that the blood in his mouth? Raising his glacial eyes, crystalline cold fire burned within the topaz orbs that watched and calculated his enemy’s approach. I’m done with you, dammit. Let’s end this, he growled inside, dark lips forming a grim line above his bearded chin. Torleik stood his ground as Déodat charged, seeking to bluff the more agile stallion into a maneuver more inventive than a straight charge – with which he’d regaled this audience of one multiple times now. Show me something new, he grunted, the demand unheard – yet seemingly obeyed when the blood bay suddenly drew his form up and into the air, kicking out with his hooves as Torleik had in the very recent past. The stockier male had already resigned himself to absorbing pain every time Déodat drew near and felt no trepidation when hooves flashed towards his skull. Lowering his head quickly and shifting his weight to his hind legs, Torleik grunted audibly when he felt the tip of his right horn chip off and one of his opponent’s hooves connect with his neck. It didn’t matter, the damage to his horn, the pain, because all he desired was to skewer Déodat’s soft, cowardly underbelly that was so deliciously exposed by trying this attack head on. Tensing and pushing with all of his might from his back legs, Torleik drove his body forward, intending to leap horns-first into the blood bay’s belly with all of his might and momentum. He would gut the bastard for all he was worth and watch his entrails coat the ground. "talk talk talk" --------------------------------------------------------- [[WC: 786 | (4/4) Torleik waits until Deo rears before launching himself, head lowered and horns first, towards Deo's exposed belly.]] |
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Pixel by: Tamme :D
Pixel by: Tamme :D
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