Vale.

That was the name on her tongue given to her by her Lord and Lady, yet no face in her mind, but Rhiannon wasn't so weak as to be perturbed. No, quite the opposite. Confidence rippled upon every growing muscle, over every inch of ebony, brindled musculature. Icy-silver and hot, molten-gold oculars were narrowed in condescending as the brindled Weaver stepped across the lands of her birth towards their impromptu battle ground, every movement a confident dance, sashaying like a demon-Queen across the Birdsong-thriving land.

Life was coming back to the northernmost Herd of Helovia, and Rhiannon hated it. She detested the lack of snow to crunch beneath her hooves, the scarcity of a bitterly cold wind, and the growing of ugly, unsightly new grasses, even if they worked well to appease her hunger. She loathed the new 'life' that took away the frozen kingdom in which she stalked; the melting of ice and snow, the abundance and birthing of little, annoying creatures and small animals, and the visitors.

"Ugh." The gall of it all, truly!

Just because it was Birdsong didn't entitle fools to come traipsing up to their doors and boldly stating to be let in, pecking at their windows for entrance like gossiping, flitting canaries. The thought was infuriating, and it was that very fury, that desire to wreak havoc that had caused Rhiannon to leave her humble cave in the evening hours and hunt out this 'Vale' fellow. Hopefully he would at least prove a challenge.

Stopping in the center of the Basin, the mare's eyes narrowed upon her surroundings, taking note of the pristine field of war. Dirt marred the earth, robbing the snow of its rightful place, and Rhiannon's experienced eye spotted scuff-marks and trudgings, proof that others had met here and locked horns before she. The lake was nearby, and brief memories of her time spent with Crowley, playing in the shallows, crossed her mind before Rhiannon slammed those memories into the recesses of her mind. Now was not the time for distractions. Around their little field of bloodshed, sparse pine trees surrounded them a distance off in a mockery of an arena. The evening sky was turning red and orange as the sun began its mighty descent, coating the land in bloody crimson waves and far too warm upon her body... A manic grin pulled at the Weaver's lips, showing teeth, and her eyes light up with excitement that coursed pleasurably through her muscled bulk. What a perfect setting for battle.

The dust-coated devil sucked in a large gulp of air, then summoned her challenger. "Vale!" The white-striped mar of darkness shouted, her vocals demanding and prude, head snapping upwards with twisted horns pointed proudly towards the sky, "Come, soldier!" A stamp of a dark, ebony hoof into soft, malleable dirt, and an annoyed flick of a frosted tail, and the Weaver continued in a loud, clamorous roar. "Meet me upon the battlefield. Prove your worth!"

@[Vale]

ooc: Birdsong Seasonal Spar | 0/3 Posts | Wordcount: 495
Magic and Companions ARE allowed!
Setting: In the middle of the Aurora Basin in the evening. The ground is dusty and dirty, the color of the land altered by the setting sun. The air is warm, but a slight chill is fast approaching with the coming nightfall.
Vale may make the first attack, if he wishes. Good luck, Ammy!

VALE

He was a silhouette against the setting of the sun; a dark figure against a sea of fire haloed by purpose and self-gain and not by holy divine. He wasn’t a saint or a do-gooder just a sinner marred in his own slow demise. And yet he was ok with that, ok to come down from the mountains feeling the ground level out into the packed dust riddled flats, ok to stand as a challenger called to the battlefields his name shouted out in defiance, answering the dark mare’s commands with his own. The trees stood as their audience, sparse with the grip of winter slowly lightening their brown heavy branches, new life would soon start to grow and unfreeze the stilled lake as Birdsong broke through the clouds. And oh how the dark solider hated it! Too noisy and too bright, he missed the cold as it wrapped around him, sinking into his bones and silence it brought always helped to quiet his mind. But now was not the time for mere longing, focus was now his greatest asset as he regarded his brindled opponent on the battlefield.

Vale had answered the call for opportunity to hone his dormant skills, although it was only in training he would take this seriously, finally some action and a way to earn his keep, if it were ever needed. He eyed the she-warrior with golden eyes, giving nothing away as he appraised her movements like a hunter watching one another seeing who would make the first move. She was young but experienced and the way she held herself told him he would need to be smart about his attack, something unpredictable to catch her off guard.

He smiled as he begin circling weaving this way and that, ever more inching a little closer. Maybe today would be the day someone could knock his arse into the dirt, or not. He always liked the ultimate surprise of a good fight, who would be the victor?

“Let us dance, my friend!” He called before launching himself into the air, muscles contracting and releasing to fly across the ground eating up the space between the two equines, the dust settling slowly behind him. The jagged pieces of his crown lowered to meet flesh, hoping to stain red. As the dark wolf neared the brindled she-devil he skipped to the right at the last second hoping to catch her by surprise and impale the soft flesh of her pretty neck.

Maybe today would be the day he knocked some else on their arse.



"Talking"
OOC:: Birdsong Seasonal Spar | 1/3 Posts | Words:431
Setting: Evening, Birdsong has just begun, the ground is dry and dusty and no more snow remains, the trees are sparse and the lake is still frozen over.
Battle:Vale charges with full speed at Rhiannon but at the last second jumps to the right attempting to impale her neck with his horn.
Good luck to you too! :) @[Rhiannon]

'Stand, Nonnie,' Crowley had said once in a biting yet soothing tone one day to his only daughter, back before Asch and Arwen had been a creation. Training his only daughter for violence, for deception and cunning, for war, had been a necessity... And Rhiannon had basked in the attention, relished the lessons, the broadening of the horizon that was right at her hooves and ripe for the taking. 'Stand, and let them come to you. Then crush them.'

Now, Crowley was a shadow of his former self, and it made her sick.

For you, Papa, Rhiannon thought, head raising in pride, muscles quivering in anticipation, and tongue twisting within her maw for the taste of blood. For you.

Two-toned oculars narrowed in judgement as the stallion, her challenger - this Vale - arrived with the setting sun at his back. An unimpressed snort escaped the Weaver's nostrils with a mighty breath. Rhiannon eyed the man, icy-silver and molten-gold taking in everything that his body had to offer when words could not be used. Smooth, lithe, agile, and dangerous. Muscles were packed within a frame meant for deception, all tucked away and hidden in tiny little packages beneath an ebony coat, and the mare's experienced eyes stared, hard and cold. Every second that they sized one another up, Rhiannon began breaking him down, assessing him, judging him with a calculating gaze.

He would be far more nimble than she, given the genetics she had gained from the mare who had birthed her. Where she would have power, raw and dangerous, he would have agility, deceptive and cunning... She would have to be careful. The horn upon his brow only served as a reminder that Vale was one of her kind, and that this was only a moment to freshen up their skills of war. This wasn't a fight, this wasn't a moment to slay, to murder, to rape or pillage or drink the blood of her foes... No. This was a moment between sisters-in-arm. Or, well, sisters-and-brothers, since Vale was a stallion. Rhiannon snorted again, this time in disdain.

A pity.

Vale was shorter than she, but not by much. At two years and six months of age, Rhiannon still had a lot of growing to do, a lot of filling out of buxom musculature in the right places and strengthening of joins and ligaments, but she wasn't a fool to think that her height alone would serve of any advantage. He was older, this stallion, and so his bulk was hardy, strong, and resilient where Nonnie's... She was far more fragile, far more strange and alien, for it was only temporary. Rhiannon had to keep in mind that Vale was far more intimate with his own body and how it worked than she was. A disadvantage from a higher power, but one she was prepared to face head-on.

Crowley's earlier memento echoed within her cranium and Rhiannon let out a soft, measured breath. 'Stay, Nonnie. Whatever Vale had wanted to find through a visual assessment, apparently he had, and as her father had stated, the stallion balked and made the first move. His bellow of friendly camaraderie fell on deaf ears, and the Weaver's dual-toned oculars narrowed in challenge.

Watch, Papa. Watch, and I'll make you proud.

Vale advanced, twisting and turning and weaving before her in ways that she would work on an ornate tapestry. The brindled mare remained where she stood, watching him, muscles bunching and coiling and preparing for his inevitable strike... And there it was. Giving up on his dance of one, Vale propelled himself forward with a mighty push off the dusty ground, charging at her head-on, and Rhiannon's right rear hoof slid back a breath. Before collision, it seemed that the stallion would try and employ a 'slapdash' approach by psyching her out and leaping to his right at the last moment... And rage blossomed anew within the Weaver's breast as he lunged his jagged crown towards her neck. Her neck! This was a spar! Was this stallion an idiot?!

"Take me for a fool, boy?!" She bellowed angrily, hindquarters disengaging as the Brindled Devil burst into action. As Vale darted to his right, to her left, Rhiannon pushed off the earth to her right in hopes to evade his horn, hooves scratching the surface of the dirt, relief blossoming in her ebony breast as no horn made connection. Swinging her hind-end to the left, to where she hoped Vale would still be, the Brindled Devil's back humped, horned head dropping low to the earth, and shifting her weight onto her forelegs, Rhiannon bucked. Powerful hind legs kicked up and out, hoping to make connection to Vale's left side along the girth of his barrel, or upon his hips.

@[Vale]

ooc: 1/3 Posts | Wordcount: 798
Summary: Rhiannon moves to the right to avoid Vale's attack. Swinging her rump around to the left, she attempts to buck out and hit Vale's left side/barrel/hip.