Rostislav

Dust swirling around our bodies, sweat dripping down our faces, down our sides. The path of the sweat droplets leave a clean trail in the soft brown cover that coats our large carcasses. Sun above, blistering heat, relentless on our backs. Stallions of the wild west, fighting for what - a herd, honor, land? No, because it's what we do. This is where we take our stand, where we fight so that we know exactly what we're made of, if that stuff, that stuff inside, is actually tough enough. Is your sinew strong enough to stand the brute force applied by another living being wanting to bring you to your knees?

My sinew is strong enough, is yours Midas? You move out of my way just enough that I am not stabbing you through and through, but you are not so fast and agile that you can escape me entirely. Horns atop my crown are deadly, and you are lucky that what I leave on your pelt is a simple scratch, burning but after today a complete after thought. A clink, clank as my horn hits your collar, and I draw back, startled by the metallic sound. I wasn't expecting that and it jolts my head enough that I am drawn out of the moment. Though Midas is just slightly shorter and more compact, it's obvious his defense and offense are aided by his size, not harmed. He is more agile than I am and can turn in twist in ways that my stockier build cannot. His lean muscle is accustomed to moving on the battlefield and knows how to work around my bulk. He is a wizened warrior against my compared naïveté. What's a poor boy to do? But just because he is more experienced does not mean I cannot strike a blow, and my confidence in this moment is boosted.

Do you cry when you're wounded? Do you crumble, defeated? Or do you stand back up, ready to take another blow. Are you willing to go on no matter the cost? A cry in the mind, through my veins, my tissues, all the way to my heart. My bonded, my one love, whines with anxiety for my wellbeing. She doesn't realize what Midas and I clearly see - my king is taking it easy on me, purposefully being gentle so that I may walk away from this instead of remaining as a pile of bones in a pool of blood. Her worry distracts me, and I find myself momentarily absent from the actions that are happening like spitfire.

Why, Rosti, why? Don't lose focus. Did you drown yourself in your bottle, have you passed from the realm of consciousness? This is why we don't drink when we spar, and yet here you are acting like you've chugged some Grey Goose. Get your head in the game. Do you even see Midas turning, rotating, those hindquarters bunching, tightening as he prepares to launch his attack? Of course you don't. Lucky, luck as hell that Midas does not attack straight on, those hind hooves can pack a punch. If he were to hit the breastbone of this drunken unicorn that important structure might just shatter.

Those hooves come at me, my eyes widen. Lucky is right. Instead of my chest they swing away and hit my barrel. Well, I thought it was lucky. A pained groan pushes forcefully past my lips, loud and clear. The flints of my opponent strike against my side, and I realize that maybe I don't have as much fat padding me there as I thought. With all this sparring, I seem to have worked a lot of it off, and his powerful thrust hits across my ribs. There will be bruises, and painful movement and breathing for quite awhile I suspect. Better that, though, than a shattered chest.

Revenge, brother, revenge. I lunge forward at his form, trying to avoid the hooves that may still be in the air. Teeth bared, ready for blood. Let me paint you red, Midas, and leave you memories of me. Ivories aim for the painted hindquarters, hoping to scrape flesh away and leave cuts and someday scars. The pain from Midas's attack to my crest stings, but not enough to cause me hesitation. I don't want to disfigure you, Sir, but you had better remember that I am your general, and you will not best me. Everyone that crosses my path will carry my mark, and you will know that you have chosen the right beast to lead your soldiers. I am Rostislav, Usurper of Glory, and I will have your respect.

Walk. Talk.

WC: 771
Attack: [3,3]
Ohh.. played around a lot with perspective. Good idea or not, I don't know. Any questions please ask. Rosti took damage to his ribcage. Launched forward to attack Midas's hindquarters as he's coming down, trying to avoid flying hooves.

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