A snort meant many things to the elder stallion but he paid little heed to the subtleties of body language and nuances of such an action now – now was the time to battle. The challenge had been accepted and the fight had begun even if their bodies had yet to crash together in the intimacy of violence. To know that Ashamin felt whatever promise he’d made to this friend of his was a death with would have brought the warrior poet great mirth.

Of course fighting was a death wish! That was what made it glorious!

But this? This was merely a spar, a test of skill, not meant to maim or kill. It was practice, if still a rather dangerous kind. And right now, Ashamin was going to get practice in the skill of holding his ground. Torleik’s charge was rather blind and he didn’t much expect to gain more than a glancing hit on the youngling, anticipating his opponent’s quickness and agility would rank him outmaneuvered after he clearly telegraphed this attack. As he drew closer, hooves thundering over the rocky soil, time seemed to slow.

His opponent wasn’t moving.

Why wasn’t he moving? Did the child wish to be crippled?

Was this a tactic to see who would break first? Grunting, the Bloodskald pressed on. He would not be swayed by a test of will; his was ironclad once baptized in the crucible of battle! If Ashamin thought he could wait until the last moment to avoid an attack he was immensely naïve. The time for dodging away unscathed had passed. If only the elder male had seen the fear in his mark’s eyes, seen the way he was rooted to the spot in crippling terror, then perhaps he could have shown the young one mercy. As it was, the tilt of his head for the attack left him with only the lower half of the world to his vision.

And all he saw was an immobile opponent into whom he was about to crash at full speed.

At what seemed like the eleventh hour, the very last instant of time left to Ashamin, the young one finally snapped to and scrambled but it was far too late. The blunt impact of his horns slamming into flesh shocked his system and a sharp pain traveled through his neck as his spinal column was suddenly and brutally compressed. He should have tensed more, been prepared for it, but Torleik just couldn’t believe that the child wouldn’t move, that he would actually ram into his opponent as completely as he had. He wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared at all.

The Bloodskald’s furred ears heard Ashamin’s cry at the same moment his brain was struggling to process that he had just impaled the youngling and why hadn’t he fucking moved?! Awash in horrified guilt that he’d done far more damage than he ever intended to inflict, anger nipping at guilt’s heels because of his opponent’s responsibility for this travesty, Torleik immediately sought to disengage and end this fight here and now. This was not how a spar was supposed to be! A test of skill was not a bloody fight to the death!

Ashamin’s tail curled around his horns and Torleik snapped at any bit that got within range of his teeth, furious that this was how the battle had turned. His footing was poor, this patch of ground more rocky than he’d noticed and it was hard to gain purchase to pull back and release his weapons from the flesh that ensconced them. He could smell the blood as it leaked out, feel the heat coming off of Ashamin’s body and the strategist in him knew it was a deathwish to be stuck like this, almost wholly vulnerable to attack.

Pain erupted down his spine when Ashamin’s hooves crashed on his back like boulders, finally spurring the Bloodskald into a violent enough thrash that he yanked his horns free of the youngling’s hindquarters, hearing the CLACK! of teeth fractions of a second later. Had his attacker tried to bite him? Tossing his muscular neck back and forth in a hazy rage, the Bloodskald attempted to free himself from Ashamin’s tail and back away. “You damn fool!” he bellowed. “Why didn’t you move? This isn’t a battle to the death, it’s a spar!” he said, chest heaving, a sick feeling in his gut as the fresh blood left on his horns trickled down, hot and sticky, onto his crown.

Torleik blinked roughly, keeping the crimson out of his narrowed gaze. “I will not fight you if you’re going to get yourself killed.” Sending this child’s soul to feast forevermore in the halls of Valhallr would not be his crowning achievement today! He grunted. Damn his back hurt. That would bruise.


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@[Ashamin]

WC: (800 in word) || Attack (2/3) || Closing defense (0/1)

Summary: Torleik is 1. horrified he just impaled Ashamin and 2. pissed Ashamin didn't move and therefore let himself get impaled when he could have avoided it. He doesn't "attack," only snaps at Ashamin's tail if he can manage to chomp on it and roughly rips his horns out of Ashamin's hindquarters.

OOC: Sorry it took a bit. Had a week of apartment hunting that sucked >.> So I just re-read and noticed you said just a friendly spar with no notes. Don't know how I missed that the first time. I think I just got super excited and caught up in it all. Now I kinda feel like a dick - my bad! Only one thing I feel I should mention:

• The amount of damage Ashamin took - the dice roll value was only a 1 or a 2, can't remember which, which is very low. At most the general consensus of how much damage that would do is like a small cut, or a bruise, or an abrasion. Having Ashamin get impaled is way too much for just a 1-2 damage roll. That would be equivalent to pretty much a 6, maybe a 5 if you could make it realistic. Just don't want you to get any points off for that stuff in the next posts!