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11-10-2015, 10:35 AM
Suddenly there was too much in his mouth— too much hair, too much skin, too much wither. The spotted stallion was heaving himself up and against the elephant, straining his jaws past their hinges. He grunts, forelimbs pawing for purchase as he tried to rise up and away to free his mouth. His back flexed and haunches tensed as he lifted his rearing forehand further— but a stinging pain sung through his left shoulder as he dislodged himself from Mauja. The coldly crystal horn scored a thin, red streak along the elephant’s hide. Another low grunt escaped his thick, flared nostrils as he wrenches his large body to the right— away from the sharp, frigid spear. His right forelimb awkwardly reached laterally to catch his large, falling front-end. His scalded shoulder throbbed as he slammed to the muddy ground, clumsily scrambling regain his balance while still favoring his bruised left flank. Finally regaining his footing in the muck, he looked toward Mauja. He let out a slow, long breath while his dark blue eyes stared at his leader. His mind was struggling to find the same equilibrium his body had found. He had called Mauja for this fight to clear his mind and remind his muscles of their training. Instead, he found that his body was weary of fighting and his mind… Well, his mind was a mess of anger, doubt, demons, and blame. Blood beaded to the surface of his thick skin where the spotted had drawn his horn. The shallow, ruby red line was bright against the buckskin of his shoulder, skin twitching as a single drop lazily and haltingly trickled down. The monumental head, which had started at his great height, had fallen, his poll even with his withers. And his unblinking gaze, still, never left Mauja. Defeat was etched on his black-marked face and hardened his glassy, cobalt eyes. It was not defeat from being so thoroughly attacked in the this fight— no, that was something any soldier becomes accustomed to. Instead, it was from the realization that this was not his life anymore. He was not a general of an army, he was not leading and manipulating troops to destroy others. And, what’s more, he hadn’t enjoyed it. He usually found excitement in sparring— but here, in Helovia, it would be a necessity for protection. Not a pleasure. His vast sides move in a long, low sigh and he shifts, collecting his sprawled legs beneath himself. “I’d thank you for the spar,” his voice quietly rumbles, “But I am not certain that I mean it.” He gently moves his right forelimb against the itch of serum that oozed from the burns, before realizing that his words nearly sounded petulant. His ears tilt back as his gaze flicks away from Mauja, “No, I do mean it. Even if I’m much worse for wear from it.” A hesitant, small, and lopsided grin tugs a the corners of his thick, dark lips. He was many things, but a sore loser was not one of them. 1/1 Summary: Mau's horn scrapes his shoulder. WC: 509 |
- table by Niki -
THANK YOU NEO <3 I learned SO MUCH from this!!
Please tag Tembovu.
