the Rift


[JUDGED] eyes like broken christmas lights

Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#1


THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED
FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM

Thunder screams and lightning tears the night sky asunder, whilst a deluge of rain hammers down on the back of the young behemoth as he marches through the storm.

His dragons howl against the thunder, the wind billowing beneath their wings and throwing them in different directions. Vérzés, older and more experienced in the air, manages to snatch at the wind and keep himself level. Vadir, however, despite her already formidable size and strength (the perks of being a queen), is but a baby in dragon terms, and struggles badly with the foul conditions. She bellows her displeasure as she's swung right and left, her tail flailing behind her as she tries to keep her balance. In his mind, Volterra feels her rage - how dare the wind attempt to control her, the god damned queen of all she sees? She is unused to such competition from the elements, and her desire to dominate them almost overwhelms the young stallion.

The conditions are far from ideal for a battle - waterlogged, heavy ground, high wind, a storm. But that only makes the giant more determined to test himself in such adverse weather, because not every battle will happen in the sun on flat ground, will it?

The black titan draws to a halt in the centre of the beach, and his massive hooves immediately begin to sink. He shrivels his nose in disgust and flips his head like a metronome, swinging his sodden mane around him like a whirlwind. The patterned skull on his face at least prevents water getting into his eyes, which could prove to be an advantage, but the rest of his body is so drenched that his obisidian flesh seems to glow. Will anybody heed his battlecry on this most unpleasant of evenings? He arches his thick neck and releases a stallion's scream into the stormy heavens, standing like a sentinel against the forked lightning as he waits to tangle with whoever is brave enough to face the elements. ""

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Spar for @Grimalkin ! Magic and companions okay (if you're fine with that), set in the Endless Blue in heavy rain and a storm at night.

0/3


[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




Grimalkin Posts: 50
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 7 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hh :: 4 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Whit
#2
Somewhere on the beach, a fellow behemoth heard the call to arms, and he smiled.

The spray of the ocean's rough waves and the rains falling from heavens combined to drench the stallion long ago. He stood on the open sand, preferring to feel the elements in their entirety rather than hide and skulk about the treeline - where was the fun in that? Taking shelter, hiding from that which had the potential to make one stronger - that was foolish. Certainly, hide when things became deadly so that one may live on, but simple rain and wind?

Pah, thought the stallion, the giant, the titan, as he stood against the storm.

The smile deepened as he turned himself to approach the beckoning call, broad hooves treading the hardened, dampened sand with ease. Sand and snow were similar, and he was a creature who enjoyed time upon both terrains, as he usually was able to traverse them with fair ease.

What he didn't count on was the drag his great creamy feathers would cause when wet.

However, he didn't let it stop him in accepting the challenge. Grimalkin was a youthful steed still, and though just leaving the adolescent phase of his life, he was still bound by the prideful masculine desire to pommel someone every now and again.

With a deep bellow trumpeting from his lips, Grimalkin shook off what he could of the great damp that slowed his limbs down, and trotted towards this fellow titan. Eyes, which flashed green whenever lightning struck, made their quick assessment of the dark one and his companions - he could not be sure in this torrential downpour, but he thought he counted two winged things.

It didn't matter. The challenge was already accepted.

Rolling his bulky form into a canter, Grimalkin made to approach much like a juggernaut would - momentum would carry his motion over the sands and to his enemy, and only a greater force would be able to stop him. As he neared he assessed that this behemoth was taller than himself, but Grimalkin knew all too well that height was not everything - the sheer thickness of Grimalkin's own barrel attested to the power his comparatively stout body could muster.

Grimalkin was attempting to approach the dark equine's left side, and wanted so badly to see his antlers connect with Volterra's shoulder and neck - maybe draw some blood, peel back the skin some, or at the very least bruise and make it uncomfortable for the other one to breathe. The unicorn lowered his grand, antlered crown, arching his thick, solid nape, and aimed a sharp and hard smack of the sharp prongs of his right towards his desired target, his rolling canter aimed as near the other as he could get.


1/3 attack posts
0/1 closing defence
465/800 words
Magic & companion allowed
@Volterra
colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart

please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
I write what I feel at the time
and hope everyone else does the same c:


Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#3


THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED
FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM

The thunder drowns out the antlered one's bellow, just another rumble amidst a backdrop of noise. But through the scream of the storm, the dragons see.

They see a stallion, a hand or so smaller than Volterra but equal in sheer bulk and presence, sporting two massive antlers that must require phenomenal neck strength to hold aloft. They see mud and sand spurting beneath heavy hooves as the man charges, making it quite clear that he is to be the young warlord's opponent today. Through their sharp eyes, they show Volterra what his feeble horse vision can't possibly see amidst the driving rain, and they give him just enough time to swing his hips to the right to try and bring him face to face with their charging opponent. His feet skid and slalom on the sodden sand as he moves, and he tenses every firm muscle in his stout legs to ensure his balance is braced hard against the adverse terrain.

It is luck, more than anything else, that saves him from the unicorn goliath's strike - despite his attempts to keep his footing, his massive hooves slip as he turns, lurching him badly to his right. He stumbles, fighting to keep his balance, slipping and sliding and fretting as he contemplates how embarrassing it would be if he ended up on his ass so early on in the fight. He arches his neck, bulks his muscles and, with some effort, manages to stay on all four legs. He's sure he hears a draconic laugh from high above, although he can't pinpoint which of his companions is mocking him for his faux pas.

During this inelegant slip and slide, Grimalkin's antlers just whistle past the brute's left side. It's quite a relief to the black, as a full-force impact from those horns could have broken bones, ripped sinews, hewn flesh from muscle. Through the rain, illuminated by a fork of lightning, the behemoth has a split-second to drink in as much of his opponent's appearance as he possibly can. Although the stallion is a hand smaller than Volterra, his feathered feet and muscle mass speak of considerable strength - but, reasons the beast, that also means the antlered brute should suffer from the same downfalls as Volterra does. Sinking into the sand, skidding with every misplaced hoof...they are an evenly-matched duo, and the titan feels excitement flood through his bloodstream as he contemplates the battle ahead.

From the heavens, Vérzés swoops, a crimson angel, a glimmering jewel of death. His jaws gape and he aims a torrent of frost for the waterlogged ground directly in front of Grimalkin, hoping to turn the moisture on the surface of the sand to ice. He'd tried this in similar conditions against Ciceron, but the dappled stallion had just about managed to avoid it - the ruby war-dragon prays his luck will be better this time. He hopes that the unicorn won't be able to slow his canter in time, and will find that the soft sand in front of him has suddenly turned to perilous, slippy ice.

Simultaneously, Volterra swings further to his right, his hooves splashing into puddles as he attempts to face Grimalkin's left side in a T-shape. He throws his weight to his hindquarters and lifts his hefty frame into a rear, ensuring his back feet are spaced quite far apart to give him a bigger surface area and hopefully less chance of slipping over. The diamond horseshoes on his back feet lend weight to his hind hooves, acting like anchors beneath him. He aims to slam his colossal forehooves down onto Grimalkin's hindquarters as the palomino behemoth canters past him - he hopes that the downwards motion will cause the antlered man's back legs to crumple beneath him and badly unbalance him. In conjunction with his dragon's ice attack, the beast hopes this will send Grimalkin crashing to the ground, where Volterra can assert his authority over him.

Blood pounds through the stallion's body, his excitement heightened, his flesh tingling. This is what it means to be a warrior - crossing swords with a man of equal strength, brute force against brute force, whilst a storm sings in the background and the sodden sand just begs to be splattered with blood. This is what Volterra was born and bred for; battle.

Above the clashing giants, Vadir fights against the wind. Despite her ongoing battle with the elements, she never takes her eyes off Volterra, ready to dive down and lend a hand if she feels he needs it. For now she is content to watch, to study her bonded in war for the first time - to see if he is as strong as she thought he was when she chose to bond to him.

_______________

@Grimalkin !

1/3 - 797 words


[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




Grimalkin Posts: 50
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 7 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hh :: 4 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Whit
#4
A grunt rolled through his chest, as realisation settled upon his countenance that he was unsuccessful in his initial strike against this foe. Grimalkin's antlers came across no interference, no barriers, he did not feel the satisfying crunch of antler against flesh - which in a way, saved him from a possible strain or ache as his neck would have had to absorb the impact. As it was, the chocolate steed continued careening past this titan, a behemoth in his own rights finding his footing in the sodden earth below. The sand was churned and messy, the weight of his drenched feathers causing extra drag that he was constantly working to overcome. As long as he maintained his momentum, like a juggernaut, his destructive path would only be interrupted by resistance, by a force greater than his own power.

The heart within the steed's chest picked up its rate, pulsing and pumping precious life-fuel across his body. It was not until a flash of ice showered down ahead that the adrenaline made its appearance - and he recalled the things he had seen before, and both wondered at and cursed their existence. Dragons, he growled to himself, though he was only familiar with the traditional belief that dragons meant fire, not frost

So it is with a bit of confusion that his feet met the icy ground, crunching heavily and slipping as all four feet struggled for purchase - his weight caused the icy to break and sink into the sand beneath soon enough, he blessed the sodden, thick feathering that clung to his legs, for without it he surely would have sliced his fetlocks on the shards of ice. His momentum was interrupted, and just as he found his balance once more he was faced with the looming hulk of Volterra to his left.

A savage snarl appeared on his maw as he scrambled his legs beneath him, urging them to move desperately. He was grateful, for the sand beneath allows the ice to shift and break as his colossal weight trampled over it; he found purchase again relatively swiftly, and made to resume his juggernaut's rampage.

He would not fall, he would not bow to his foe, no matter how great, strong and powerful Volterra proved to be. Grimalkin was a stubborn brute, proud and desperate to prove his capabilities to himself and the herd he had left behind. I will go north, he hummed in his mind, I will return to them a victor, he grit his teeth in grim determination. Haunches flexed, bulging muscles pushed the stallion forward as his hooves grappled at the icy sand below, even as the pale forelegs of Volterra crashed down. Close, he thought, too close, he winced as he felt the edge of Volterra's left foreleg clip his generous buttock, a bruise sure to rise swiftly and give Grimalkin an ache that would take a week to get over.

Grimalkin's mind didn't stop, it kept churning, his eyes trained themselves as best they could upon the giant that was, while he came crashing down, behind him. In a snap decision, Grimalkin prayed that the dark behemoth would fall prey to his own trap and be slowed by the icy arena he had his dragon construct, and therefore allow his next strike to hit. Crown lowered, a counterweight as the back end of his body rose. Hocks were bunched up tight, coiled and ready to unleash all their strength once they reached a height that would put his hooves at the level of Volterra's chest. Then, suddenly, they uncoiled, releasing a great amount of energy in one foul swoop - a double-barrel kick delivered by his wet, slippery but still sharp hooves, aimed at the left side of his foe's chest, for that was what he guessed was nearest to him after Volterra's latest attempt to leave a mark upon his own chocolate self.


@Volterra
653 words
Attack 2/3
Closing defence 0/1
colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart

please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
I write what I feel at the time
and hope everyone else does the same c:


Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#5


THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED
FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM

With a din to rival the thunder itself, the red dragon releases a scream of savage pleasure as his ice-rink causes the unicorn to slip and fight for balance. He wheels away with the lazy swing of a wing, silhouetted sharply against the lightning as he ascends towards his golden sister.

Volterra's attack is slightly less successful, as his left foreleg just clips Grimalkin's backside but fails to cripple him beneath the force of the blow. His limbs return to the ground, squelching down into deep, muddy sand that clings to the thick feathers of his legs. As Vérzés had only aimed his frost breath for directly in front of Grimalkin, there is no ice beneath Volterra's own hooves as he lands from his attack, only soft, gluttonous mire that sucks him in like the sweet caress of a woman. Again he has to fight to keep his footing, spreading his legs wide and praying. It is almost like he's facing two opponents, because as well as the antlered goliath hellbent on pounding him into submission, he also has the adverse ground conditions to contend with as well.

And he fucking loves it. He can't think of a better way to test himself, to improve, to take one step closer to the warlord he dreams of becoming. It's fights like this that will define him, that will harden and strengthen him, that will sculpt him into his own twisted vision of perfection. As his dragons circle above him like deadly gemstones, as the rain slicks his coat and the lightning illuminates every rugged line of his musculature, he feels so god damned alive that he thinks he could scale mountains, soar above the clouds, defeat a bear. In the absence of a bear, this hulking antlered beast will have to suffice.

His euphoria is only slightly dampened when he sees, out of the corner of his eye, Grimalkin lift ominiously forwards, colossal hind legs unfurling like broken promises. Ah, the beast scolds himself. Maybe the middle of a battle is not the best time to reminisce on how fucking awesome life is.

With what little time he has to act, Volterra hurls his weight to his left. His feet beg for purchase on the slimy ground, find only the bare minimum of what they're looking for, but it's enough to get him out of the way of the main brunt of Grimalkin's attack. The unicorn's left hindhoof collides with the right side of Volterra's chest, embedding a hoof-shaped bruise that sears through flesh but stops just shy of tenderizing the muscle. The pain is a startling reminder of the battle he's in, and he grins beneath his bony mask.

He continues forwards, aiming to run parallel with the unicorn, his right side to Grimalkin's left side with them both facing in the same direction. The wet sand sucks away some of his momentum, leading the brute to reconsider any barging attacks; these conditions steal away impetus, destroy his notions of barbaric slamming. This is a battle made for finesse, for brains rather than brawn, things that the young titan does not excel at. Again, he revels in the fact he is testing himself, pushing his own boundaries.

With a feral grunt, he throws his front half's weight to the left again and thrusts all his energy into his hindlegs. They sprawl out to his right in a vicious cow-kick, aiming for midway along the palomino unicorn's left ribcage. The beast throws a fair amount of energy into this attack, to try and cause considerable damage - he does restrain himself slightly, though, and his attempt is not designed to shatter ribs or irreversibly maim the antlered giant. It's the first time he's used his hindhooves to strike with since he gained the horseshoes that adorn them, although said horseshoes are currenly invisible beneath the mess of mud that clings to the beast's feathered feet. He can feel the weight and power they add to his limbs, and Grimalkin is something of a crash test dummy to see how well they work.

In the corner of his mind, he feels his dragons both struggling against the howling wind. Neither move to aid him during this attack - not just because the elements are keeping them occupied, but also because they are both keen to see how Volterra fights without their assistance. As the beast is always keen to stress, his companions and his magic should always be added extras in any battle, not things he relies on to win. This is why he tests his body, his strength, his mind, to ensure he can rise to greatness as a seperate entity from his companions.

_______________

@Grimalkin !

2/3 - 783 words


[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




Grimalkin Posts: 50
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 7 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hh :: 4 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Whit
#6
Rain stung his eyes, it fell mercilessly, like wet bullets shot from the dark, pregnant clouds above. He was drenched, his hide black for the water it held, his blaze a beacon for his enemy to use to track him, his pale mane and tail a similar disadvantage in this game where stealth and cunning would certainly come in handy. But stealth and cunning was forgotten, this was a fight of strength, sweat and grit, of determination and a clash of titans in the middle of a storm. Though his feet were once upon a time as creamy in hue as his mane and tail, the strands are waterlogged and sand-laden now, and blend into the dark chocolate of his hide - becoming almost black in the storm, if not for the flashes of lightning that occasionally (thunderingly) illuminate the situation. Grimalkin shuts his eyes tight as his hocks unfurl the savage beating his hinds were unleashing at his enemy, both in concentration and an effort to reduce the amount of wet sand that might splash up into his emerald pools during the motion.

He felt a connection, a slick slap against flesh, and he knows his dark pale-faced enemy is likely to be hot on his tail again. Grimalkin found what purchase he could beneath him and powered forward, as speedy as his bulky, wet mass could - which wasn't very fast, if one were to compare it to a sunny day with firm footing below. But he was spurred onwards by a determination to grow, to improve and to not get his ass handed to him.

A vague sense of surprise settled on his countenance as he sensed, rather than saw, the behemoth next time. The longer legs of Volterra undoubtedly allowed him to gain on Grimalkin's evading form; it is the guttural grunt that reverberates within Volterra's chest that alert Grim to the incoming strike. Immediately the chocolate-stained-black steed dug his heels into the damp, sandy loam, his hocks scraped against the trenches that formed behind him (his haunch squealed in protest as the bruised muscle was stretched and tensed so soon after being pommelled). The legs that came swinging towards him had no marker for his eyes to track, no pale tones to tell him exactly where and when he would feel the strike that was to come - then a glint, a hint, of silver (no, he thought, diamond), glimmered amongst the muck and rain and hooves, and he flinched, a grimace that shuddered through his entire body. The reflex did as his instincts prayed it would - it saved him from potentially fatal damage, it caused his form to simultaneously brace and shudder away from the impact.

Due to him applying the brakes earlier, Volterra's original aim was skewed, and he felt the impact land upon his left shoulder, however his posture encouraged the blow to roll off sooner than it otherwise would have. He felt it, certainly - it pounded the thin skin that stretched over the scapula and pinched it between diamond and bone, it stung like a bitch, and Grimalkin would have screamed had he been a man of lesser constitution - as it was, he grunted and ground his teeth in annoyance, ears pinning further down into the depths of his soaked mane and nape. A shallow cut, surrounded by hoof-shaped bruising, swelled almost immediately at the site of impact - but the sting was washed away in the downpour, as the constant thrum of rain stimulated his nerves to the point of saturation, and numbing.

A savage snarl pulled back the stallion's lips, as, dragons forgotten about, he lurched forward again, an attempt to give chase to his enemy before Volterra might have had a chance to find his feet completely again. Grimalkin wanted to bite, to chew and rip and tear at the dark hide, and so he aimed for Volterra's right side, somewhere on his flank region - ideally the thin skin that folded in between the stifle and barrel - but he would settle for just about anywhere.

Without hesitation, he retracted his muzzle and attempted to strike against the titan once more, this time with his chin tucked and his antlers held strong in an attempt to pommel Volterra. He aimed for the same area - the right flank - with hopes of disabling that which he viewed as his enemy's greatest arsenal.


738 words
3/3 attack posts
0/1 closing defence
@Volterra
colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart

please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
I write what I feel at the time
and hope everyone else does the same c:


Volterra the Indomitable Posts: 785
Dragon's Throat Sultan atk: 8.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 8.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 17'2hh :: 3 HP: 80 | Buff: SENSE
Vérzés :: Common Red Dragon :: Frost Breath & Toxic Breath & Vadir :: Royal Gold Dragon :: Fire Breath & Shock Breath Snow
#7


THROW THE BAIT, CATCH THE SHARK, BLEED THE WATER RED
FIFTY WORDS FOR MURDER AND I'M EVERY ONE OF THEM

His hooves hit, but whether they connect with their intended target or some other part of the palomino's anatomy, Volterra isn't certain. With his thick neck arched and head lowered to lend power to his hindquarters, he isn't looking at precisely what part of his foe he's managed to strike - he only cares that he has actually managed to hit, and has hopefully left some pain in his wake.

His satisfaction is shortlived. There are things that happen in battle - acts of God, acts of fate - that even the finest warrior cannot legislate for. When the titan withdraws his hindlegs to return them to the ground, he can't possibly know that they'll land in a particularly obnoxious patch of mud, churned and sloppy and deadly. He can't know that his diamond horseshoes, still quite smooth underneath, lack the grip of the hooves above them, that they'll choose this precise moment to bounce off the slimy sand instead of sinking into it and creating traction. He can't know that the devilish conditions he's so thrilled about will conspire to punish him for enjoying them, instead of fearing them.

He can't know any of these things, not until he feels himself falling.

His back feet, upon touching the ground, skid to their left with the momentum he'd used to pull them back from his cow kick. But, instead of stopping when they touch down, they continue to their left - and so does the rest of the stallion's back end. He throws his head up, wrestling for balance, jaws opening in a savage roar of fury, raging against his own helplessness as he fights to keep his balance. Fuck!! It's too late, and even though he manages to get his back legs back underneath his body, their grip on the ground is lost. They crumple beneath him and he finds himself sitting down, hind legs trapped under his weight and aching. His front end is still standing, and with a herculean bellow of effort he combines his erect forequarters with the colossal power of his hindquarters. He begins to lift his rear end back up, but even as he does so, he feels teeth bite down hard on the thick flesh of the right side of his rump. His tight, slick skin isn't pierced by the blunt teeth of his foe, but the bruise Grimalkin leaves in his wake is formidable, sending pain spearing through the hellion's body.

There's worse to come. Even as Volterra rises fully to his feet, he feels a burst of agony in the same area that's just been bitten. He doesn't need to look to know that he's just been gored by the unicorn's antlers, and he doesn't need his dragons' eyes to show him the great cuts that his opponent has engraved into his skin like constellations in the night sky.

Grimalkin's antlers push the giant's back end to its left again, and it takes a colossal effort for him to keep his hindlegs from crumpling beneath him once more. He thinks fast - instead of fighting Grimalkin's push, Volterra goes with it, throwing his forequarters to the right and allowing his aching, compromised hindquarters to slide to their left. This, he hopes, will bring his head within range of the palomino's right side, specifically the stifle area - because that's almost certainly where the bite would have landed on Volterra had the black's hindlegs not folded. The idea was a good one, and imitation is the highest form of flattery - swinging his head to its right, the beast aims a bite for that exact area on Grimalkin, hoping to sharply nip the skin and cause considerable pain.

At the same time, enraged by his bonded's plight, Vérzés dives downwards like a crimson arrow. He aims to land heavily on Grimalkin's back and dig all four sets of claws into the golden flesh beneath him, whilst his jaws snake forth to try and sink savage teeth into the area between the unicorn's withers. Vadir still refrains from helping - she has now mastered the elements somewhat, and is watching her bonded at work with considerable interest.

Despite the agony in his hindquarters, despite his anger at the slip that could well have cost him the fight, Volterra forces out a choked laugh as he withdraws his head from the attempted bite. "You fight well." It is a simple acknowledgement of a fine opponent, one there is no shame in losing to - although naturally the giant prays that the Gods will smile on him and make amends for forcing him to slip by giving him the victory. Perhaps the slide was just a test - to see how he coped with a sudden, impromptu quirk of fate.

He hopes he has passed.

_______________

@ Grimalkin ! Great fight whit!

3/3 - 800 words


[/quote]

[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far  ]
[ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]




Grimalkin Posts: 50
Outcast atk: 3.5 | def: 7 | dam: 8
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.2 hh :: 4 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Whit
#8
A grim sort of satisfaction settled within the steed as his teeth clacked against flesh, not drawing blood but at least hitting, disturbing the flesh, tenderising it. When he went forth with his next strike, the same occurred - he realised his enemy had slipped by then, too caught up was he in the rush and thrill of it all to realise what an advantage he had been given. But it made him wary - his aching shoulder complained as he dug deeper in the wet, sandy base below them to ensure his footing was secure. He grit his teeth and pressed forward, hard, all the strength of his behemoth body pushing his antlers further into and across his enemy's hide, shredding it - Grimalkin was walk away from this with blood dripping into his eyes, and it was with savage and rogue delight that he flashed forward within his own mind to such a moment of triumph and glory.

The thought did not linger long, for he was reminded of his present predicament with an abrupt trip, an overbalance - as Volterra regained ground and swung out of his reach, Grimalkin tipped heavily onto his forehand, fatigue affecting almost every one of his muscles (suddenly his antlers had become cumbersome and heavy after the strain of pressing his bulk into Volterra's rump). The toll of the fight slowed him considerably, adding to the aches and the heavy sand that dragged at his feet. Frustration curdled as he could see the pale-faced son-of-a-bitch coming at him with teeth bared but he just couldn’t move fast enough to get out of his way. Volterra's teeth pinched just the skin that Grim had been aiming for upon the black brute earlier: those delicate folds just above the stifle, sensitive and prone to swell at the slightest insult; Grimalkin knew he would be walking crooked for a week, even as he pushed off with his hinds sliding (but not falling) beneath him, managing to tear free before Volterra could rip the skin open and paint his socks red.

He thought it was done then, that the stallions had had their scuffle, their dance in wind and storm and rain, and would now part ways. But it wasn't done - what the fu- - the thought wasn't even allowed to gain traction in his mind as suddenly a flash of crimson and a slash of pain opened across his spine. Grimalkin - the juggernaut once more - bowed his great crown and pushed forward, his shoulder, his rump and now his back screaming at him to end it, stop it, remove the pain, the agony. His sudden movement must have worked, for the dragon, the pesky flying lizard, was soon dislodged, leaving him with more scratches and slashes to let the rain wash and numb - for now, it just felt like his entire top half was on fire with pain.

He came to a stop as he heard the voice of the stallion, his enemy for tonight, his nemesis, speak, three simple words of compliment. Breaths were dragging themselves through his lungs, his entire body seemed to ache, every cut was alive with fire and blood on him - and yet, this stallion thought he had done well?

Well would have been breaking your little lizard friend's neck, Grimalkin thought sourly, though he was ever the gentleman outwardly. Allowing himself several moments to gather his breath, to grit his teeth against the aches that decorated his body, the great chocolate behemoth nodded his crown to the other, and murmured with his low, gravelly tones and heavily accented words; "You too."

@Volterra
606 words
1/1 closing defence
colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart

please do not feel pressured into mirroring the length of any of my posts
I write what I feel at the time
and hope everyone else does the same c:


Official Posts: 847
Administrator
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
Official
#9
By my verdict: VOLTERRA is the winner!

GRIMALKIN
Realism [+2.5]
You have a good sense of fighting mechanics with proper attacks and defenses, and a lot of good explanation, especially for little details which are easily overlooked, such as in your third post how you describe the body’s natural inclination to flinch is actually very helpful. There were some other aspects though which, though minor, added up and took your score lower than it might otherwise have been.

For instance in your second post you write the timing as if the dragon froze the sand and then Volterra reared at you, however Volterra wrote it as being nearly simultaneous, so I would have liked to see it follow more along those lines. In that same post you describe Grimalkin’s hooves as being sharp, but offer no other explanation than that, and since horse hooves are not naturally sharp this seemed unrealistic.

You handled the translation of dice into injury well and for the most part were descriptive of your injuries - in fact I liked seeing that you mentioned your bruise from post 2 in post 3. However your closing defense had very little detail of the injuries sustained, especially from the dragon, so it was difficult to tell if you took accurate damage or not.

What I really liked was how well you continually tied in the stat/breed differences and the surroundings. You even made a point to say height didn’t always mean strength, because though Grimalkin was shorter than Volterra his strength stat was higher, and I liked how your endurance seemed to fail in your closing defense which tied in well with Volterra being stronger in endurance. You were both tied for speed and agility though, so beware when you mentioned Volterra’s speed is how he caught up to Grimalkin for his cow kick!
Your surroundings were well done though, especially with detailing how Grimalkin’s heavy feathering was affected by the moisture and sand, how sand and snow had some similarities, and how the rain to some extent helped soothe his wounds.

“A shallow cut, surrounded by hoof-shaped bruising, swelled almost immediately at the site of impact - but the sting was washed away in the downpour, as the constant thrum of rain stimulated his nerves to the point of saturation, and numbing.”


Emotion [+0.5]
Throughout this fight I never got a great sense of Grimalkin’s character. That’s he’s a warrior and he assesses his tactics well was about all I gleaned during the whole fight, and it came off very clinical without many invoked emotions. Work in tying more reaction from Grimalkin when he succeeds or fails, or what motivates him to fight (something about proving to his old homeland you wrote, but that was only one sentence and I knew nothing more about them!).

I did really like the following:
“Grimalkin would have screamed had he been a man of lesser constitution - as it was, he grunted and ground his teeth in annoyance, ears pinning further down into the depths of his soaked mane and nape.”


Prose [+3.5]
Lovely posts to read with great vocabulary, flow, and imagery.


Readability [+2.5]
Your posts were very readable, just some typos here and there and a couple tense changes that disrupted it.

P1:
“Certainly, hide when things became deadly so that one may live on…” (tense changes from prior writing)
“... to pommel someone…” (pummel)

P2:
“...caused the icy to break…” (ice)
“...enough, he…” (enough. He)
“...in one foul swoop…” (fell swoop)

P3:
“..and blend into the dark …” (tense change)
“...reverberates within Volterra's chest that alert Grim to…” (alerts)
“..after being pommelled…” (pummeled)
“...A savage snarl pulled back the stallion's lips, as, dragons forgotten about, he…” (too many commas)
“...attempt to pommel …” (pummel)


Finally tally: 36+(9*2)= 54 HP

*******************************************

VOLTERRA
Realism [+3.5]
I felt you did very well in this fight and really enjoyed what a diversity of realism you brought with how well your attacks, defenses, timing, injury, and stat/surroundings descriptions were. Your second post in particular read very well.

One thing that kept getting to me though was your constant mentions of Volterra slipping in sand. On it’s own sand is not very slippery, in fact it’s rather good at ‘gripping back’ almost and holding you, which is why you tire so easily in sand because it’s hard to push off of, since it does roll and shift, but it’s nothing like slick ice or snow or mud where you slip constantly. Even when wet, sand holds the moisture and traction well, which is why sand is such a prized landscape addition for wet areas. So I found it unrealistic to call the sand slimy or slippery, such as when you slipped on apparently nothing but the sand in post 2 (a sandy hill I could see!) and even in post 3, though at least in the latter you were coming back from an unbalancing move so that was more plausible. What you say here is a much more apt description of sand:
“The wet sand sucks away some of his momentum, leading the brute to reconsider any barging attacks; these conditions steal away impetus, destroy his notions of barbaric slamming.”

On a related note, you say your diamond horseshoes help hold Volterra in place for a rear because they are heavier? I’m not sure how any horseshoe would really weigh enough to help, but especially not diamond ones which would weigh less than typical metal ones.

Otherwise great job, especially the tactic in your closing defense of going with the momentum of Grimalkin’s attack instead of against it to help swing you around for a counter attack!


Emotion [+1]
Throughout the fight I felt myself wanting more of Volterra. That he loves to fight and test himself I understood, but it seemed like a surface layer of his character and I was often left wondering what motivated him to such a degree to fight like this. Even the bond with his dragons was all very focused on proper tactic and little feeling - the red one assisted when Volterra slipped and the gold was curious, but again those were very face value emotions that didn’t really explore the bond he shared with them.

“Maybe the middle of a battle is not the best time to reminisce on how fucking awesome life is. “


Prose [+4]
Really beautiful writing in every post with great vocabulary, imagery and flow!

“As his dragons circle above him like deadly gemstones, as the rain slicks his coat and the lightning illuminates every rugged line of his musculature, he feels so god damned alive that he thinks he could scale mountains, soar above the clouds, defeat a bear. In the absence of a bear, this hulking antlered beast will have to suffice.”


Readability [+2.5]
Your posts were all readable with minimal issues.

P1:
“His feet skid and slalom…” (this does not seem like the correct use of slalom, which is specifically defined as a race through winding obstacles)
“Blood pounds through the stallion's body…” (tense change from prior writing)

P3:
“...and has hopefully…” (tense change)


Finally tally: 48+(11*2)= 70 HP


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