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03-01-2015, 02:23 PM
Oh boy! Someone was coming!
At first, the creature seemed more mirage than anything else. An ethereal little wisp of a unicorn approached from across the meadow like something straight from a storybook: pearly and small and covering ground like liquid silk. Kipling tilted his head inquisitively as if to confirm to himself, this is real. Someone heard him – an exquisite, enchantingly strange someone – and now he was going to fight. Really. Slowly, without the slightest self-awareness, Kipling began to jig in place; he physically buzzed with anticipation as he watched this agonizingly slow, patient approach.
His restlessness reached its climax as his opponent finally closed the distance between them. As she slid to a stop, he damn near burst on the spot, crow-hopping lightly off the ground in a fit of excitement. “Yeah! Fight! Me, too!”
Kipling’s own inexperience showed in stark contrast to everything the smaller mare did. She reached up to cross horns in a classy pre-fight exchange, and he giggle-snorted loudly at the strange, hollow sensation it produced. She seemed totally in control and aware of what to say and do, and he could only smile awkwardly at her sudden seriousness. This was just fun, right? He wasn’t trying to sign up for some mortal combat shit. Hesitating, he made a graceless attempt at mirroring her introduction, stammering back, “I, Kipling… um… okay, then.”
Mercifully, the awkward small talk ended on that eloquent note.
Kipling could feel Keidajen scrutinizing him. Her peculiar eyes traced him, but the stallion hadn’t the slightest idea what they sought in the sharp angles and long curves of his inelegant body. He stood rooted to his spot, too uneducated in the art of sparring to understand “evasiveness” or “how not to be a sitting duck.” Curious, he watched her watching him. Kipling was always interested in the chance to gawk at someone else, but he could not fathom what this had to do with fighting. This was all wrong. Where was the drama, the clattering hooves, the kicking and biting?
Oh. There it was.
The mare flashed forward in a quick burst of agility, angling towards Kipling’s right side. Less coordinated and lacking the benefit of foresight, he kept his rooted position several moments too long. Instinct bailed him out at the last second and sent him scrambling to his left, but it was too late to avoid the blow entirely. Teeth closed a few inches above the elbow, ripping a mouthful of red hair from his coat. “Ow!” He yelped, a reaction born as much from surprise as from actual pain. A pair of thin red lines beaded to the surface of his skin, bracketing the new bald patch. Surprise yielded to pride, which salved his virgin wound. I did it! I’m fighting!
Once he had finally set into motion, Kipling did what he was bred to do: he seized his momentum and bolted out into the open meadow. He had travelled only a dozen strides when the first trickles of sweat began to dampen his coat, and the sting of salt mingling in the shallow incisions stole his attention. He wanted to run away and find a place where he could inspect his battle wound – his imagination had already tripled the scrape’s size and impressiveness, and he swelled with self-righteous satisfaction as he pictured himself retelling the story of his epic fight…
That was when Kipling realized that he could not flee. The story he fancied became a lot less awe-worthy when he would be forced to admit he did not match blows with this small mare. ‘Hey, maybe she’ll hit me again,’ He consoled himself with equal parts dread and optimism, swooping in a wide arc and charging back towards the river bank.
An awkward dance partner learning to follow a lead, Kipling only remembered that it was his turn to attack as he re-approached. Right, what had he seen those other horses doing in their spar…? He did not have much time to think it over. Decision haphazardly made, Kipling tried to charge Keidajen head on from the left, lowering his head slightly and snapping his teeth exuberantly at her withers. After making his novice attempt at an attack, Kipling galloped another few strides before sputtering to a halt and attempting to spin and face his opponent once more. All the while, his thoughts swung violently between wanting to inspect his wound more thoroughly and trying to guess what he was actually supposed to doing to prepare to defend himself from the next blow.
This sparring stuff is hard work.
1/3, 763 words
@[Keidajen] - yes please to tags =)
Summary: Kipling takes a shallow bite just above the elbow (reference), then bolts and circles back. He charges head on from the left and tries to bite Keidajen’s withers. About 5 strides later, he stops and attempts to turn and face her again.
At first, the creature seemed more mirage than anything else. An ethereal little wisp of a unicorn approached from across the meadow like something straight from a storybook: pearly and small and covering ground like liquid silk. Kipling tilted his head inquisitively as if to confirm to himself, this is real. Someone heard him – an exquisite, enchantingly strange someone – and now he was going to fight. Really. Slowly, without the slightest self-awareness, Kipling began to jig in place; he physically buzzed with anticipation as he watched this agonizingly slow, patient approach.
His restlessness reached its climax as his opponent finally closed the distance between them. As she slid to a stop, he damn near burst on the spot, crow-hopping lightly off the ground in a fit of excitement. “Yeah! Fight! Me, too!”
Kipling’s own inexperience showed in stark contrast to everything the smaller mare did. She reached up to cross horns in a classy pre-fight exchange, and he giggle-snorted loudly at the strange, hollow sensation it produced. She seemed totally in control and aware of what to say and do, and he could only smile awkwardly at her sudden seriousness. This was just fun, right? He wasn’t trying to sign up for some mortal combat shit. Hesitating, he made a graceless attempt at mirroring her introduction, stammering back, “I, Kipling… um… okay, then.”
Mercifully, the awkward small talk ended on that eloquent note.
Kipling could feel Keidajen scrutinizing him. Her peculiar eyes traced him, but the stallion hadn’t the slightest idea what they sought in the sharp angles and long curves of his inelegant body. He stood rooted to his spot, too uneducated in the art of sparring to understand “evasiveness” or “how not to be a sitting duck.” Curious, he watched her watching him. Kipling was always interested in the chance to gawk at someone else, but he could not fathom what this had to do with fighting. This was all wrong. Where was the drama, the clattering hooves, the kicking and biting?
Oh. There it was.
The mare flashed forward in a quick burst of agility, angling towards Kipling’s right side. Less coordinated and lacking the benefit of foresight, he kept his rooted position several moments too long. Instinct bailed him out at the last second and sent him scrambling to his left, but it was too late to avoid the blow entirely. Teeth closed a few inches above the elbow, ripping a mouthful of red hair from his coat. “Ow!” He yelped, a reaction born as much from surprise as from actual pain. A pair of thin red lines beaded to the surface of his skin, bracketing the new bald patch. Surprise yielded to pride, which salved his virgin wound. I did it! I’m fighting!
Once he had finally set into motion, Kipling did what he was bred to do: he seized his momentum and bolted out into the open meadow. He had travelled only a dozen strides when the first trickles of sweat began to dampen his coat, and the sting of salt mingling in the shallow incisions stole his attention. He wanted to run away and find a place where he could inspect his battle wound – his imagination had already tripled the scrape’s size and impressiveness, and he swelled with self-righteous satisfaction as he pictured himself retelling the story of his epic fight…
That was when Kipling realized that he could not flee. The story he fancied became a lot less awe-worthy when he would be forced to admit he did not match blows with this small mare. ‘Hey, maybe she’ll hit me again,’ He consoled himself with equal parts dread and optimism, swooping in a wide arc and charging back towards the river bank.
An awkward dance partner learning to follow a lead, Kipling only remembered that it was his turn to attack as he re-approached. Right, what had he seen those other horses doing in their spar…? He did not have much time to think it over. Decision haphazardly made, Kipling tried to charge Keidajen head on from the left, lowering his head slightly and snapping his teeth exuberantly at her withers. After making his novice attempt at an attack, Kipling galloped another few strides before sputtering to a halt and attempting to spin and face his opponent once more. All the while, his thoughts swung violently between wanting to inspect his wound more thoroughly and trying to guess what he was actually supposed to doing to prepare to defend himself from the next blow.
This sparring stuff is hard work.
1/3, 763 words
@[Keidajen] - yes please to tags =)
Summary: Kipling takes a shallow bite just above the elbow (reference), then bolts and circles back. He charges head on from the left and tries to bite Keidajen’s withers. About 5 strides later, he stops and attempts to turn and face her again.
Once upon a time called Right Now
