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10-11-2012, 09:12 PM
With the loss of his enemy's support comes a loss of a desire to strike. There is no fervor behind the arborun's bites and kicks, only chilled apathy. But at the same time his attitude is not that of a soldier, but a calloused, uncaring miser. He is selfish and somehow unintentionally wicked. He has no intent to murder, no intent to hurt, he simply wants the thrill for himself. He starts fights to keep the adrenaline pumping, to force some sort of action into his dull, seemingly never-ending life. Maybe he thinks he will find something worth living for in that moment before death, that moment when he can still be saved. Perhaps this is why he fights. But the reasons remain locked inside the stallion's mind as it focuses on the turn of events around him. He still feels the pounding pressure of the opposition's gaskin against his hooves, still feels the sensation of pain haunting his own shoulder and back. As Archibald's body falls away from his and the black stallion places himself in a steady rear, Birch grits his teeth and lets himself fall. The earth rises to meet him and the draft's hooves fall to do the same. Pressure hits him from both sides, all while the piercing sound of a warrior's neigh rattles the bones and increases the pain. Birch lowers his poll and protects his neck with a gentle, natural curve, but his withers are not so lucky. The larger stallion's body crashes upon the left side of his withers and pummels the very same spot where he had been previously injured, scraping bark and skin as his hooves fall across flesh. There is only one clear advantage, and Birch intends to use it. White eyes shut for a moment and lids press down upon sturdy cheek bones characteristic of a heavy breed. He contemplates death in the brief second that Archibald continues to batter his side and he focuses on whatever absence of pain is left. He grows tired of this life and this fight, feels throbbing, bruised flesh and muscle pound alongside his still beating heart, and he readies himself. And then in a moment he iss lifting his poll once more and angling his body backwards into a rear heavily supported by the presence of the stallion beside him. His hooves strike out at the untouched abdomen and the lifeplant sprouting from his withers leans towards the opponent like a battering ram. Birch lets himself fall to the left, hopefully onto the stallion's unsuspecting and unprepared form. This is the end of the fight, the white stallion can sense it. As the whites of his already snow-tinted eyes appear and dominated his orbs, he feels a dizzying rush. For a moment he thinks it is satisfaction, perhaps borne out of a confidence in his performance. He realizes seconds later it is the strips of bark torn from the base of his arbor, the scent of his own prickled drops of blood, and the kicked up dust clouding his vision. No, there is no thrill, only disorientation. Once again, Birch reminds himself that he has no control- life is but a whim, to end it no heinous crime. But to start it? Perhaps the worst crime of all. [[WC: 547 || PC: 3/3 || AS: Birch falls back down to the ground when Archibald moves to rear. Birch is shaken by the battle cry, and thus does not avoid Archibald's hooves as they strike down at his withers to the left of his tree. Birch rears and leans to his left, trying to kick at Archibald's abdomen with an extended hoof and knock him over with his tree.]] |
