She stands so unsuspecting, as if she may even know what she is waiting for. Her pale body almost blurring into the  landscape's darkness despite her  ashen tints across her fluffy coat. The dawn's color palette swathed in the dark blues of the mountains, the dim grays of the brewing storm clouds  suspended weightlessly around the jagged alps and sparkling white of frost lacing everything except the still waters of the lake. From beyond the line of her sight  his long, shadowed figure comes slithering forward in near silence. Those full moon eyes dreamily closed and unaware of his approach in the soft golden light of the Aurora morning. She is the hare that, just begging to be caught. A gnarly, wily and fat little hare, but in Deimos' shadow she's a hare all the same. So what is he, a wolf? Ah, no, much more demon than mortal, she assumes. A wolf would never do justice in describing him. His musk clings to the currents of other organic smells that swirl listlessly around the glassy lake. Tangere's eyes flutter open and her long pale eyelashes give way to her bright henna gaze; the low light allowing them to hide their normal gloss. Deimos' voice rumbles and reaches out to her like long bony fingers that grab and hold her ears. She's never heard him say her name before... She can feel his voice shape the edges of her name. The silver unicorn sort of relishes in it for a moment. Until the word 'spar' drops into the heavy atmosphere and she breaks away from the flitting, airy sensation of her name in his mouth and reality simply smacks her in the face. Tang nods to him and leaves the rest quiet between them. Words don't really have a place here anymore.  She can hear the raven's hollow laugh bounce around her mind and casts a rolling glance his way. He's patiently perched in an ancient pine that stands on the shore. He's never been part of a spar, innocent or brutal, and he's offered to stay out of it for now. His mare likes that. The worry of him becoming harmed would distract her anyhow. If she were collected, wise or at all experienced she would know to calculate things like the terrain, the temperature and how thin is the air today, is it going to snow – things of this nature. She does not take her environment into account, but instead skips straight to the subject of her opponent.  Tangere looks him over, swallowing his body up with her hungry eyes; his tall, bold frame with muscles twisted perfectly around steel bones and a long midnight-blue tipped sword swinging out of his forehead. Avoid that horn, she muses. She shifts her split toes in place, sinking slightly in the snow and sand, swishing her cropped tail anxiously from hip to hip. She lowers her head and points her horn at him – a respectful acceptance of his invitation to go first. “Kill his momentum. Stay away from that horn. If you can only avoid one set of hooves, then let it be the hind, he'll have more power there, probably.” Phrixus watches and carefully plucks the chaotic thoughts from her spinning mind, feeding them back to her with a directness she cannot seem to gain by herself. The bird has no knowledge of how to be a unicorn, or how to fight one, but their connection allows him to slip inside of her seamlessly and allow her to access the collection she lacks. She springs forward, using the power of her hind legs to propel toward him. Her toes dig and fall a few inches through the thin crust of snow, slowing her launch significantly. Her smaller, rounded size makes her a little cannonball so to speak – though her force is questionable at this point. For all she knows she could fall down dead as a pebble  the moment she touches his flesh.   Upon reaching him she plans to push her fuzzy chest into his own, force herself against him with all her might and bring herself up on the strength of her back legs. If she can manage to she will try to anchor herself to him by curling a front leg around his withers so he cannot shake her so easily. She wants to chomp at his poll  wildly, going for the ear or cheeks, pretty much anything she can find with her flattened yellowed teeth. If he moves she will try her best to cling to him, but the loose footing may just hinder that attempt. She attempts to stay on him like pine-pitch tangled in one's hair. Summary: She rushes at him and tries to *cling* while biting at his poll, ears and general cheek/face area. I attempted to write it so it could be left open for Deimos to perhaps  just be strong enough to shove her away, or do some evasive thing where she doesn't even get to bite at him. Words: 785 Posts: 1/3 [I think? Lol] I'm here to learn so don't be scared to be like....WTF Psilo. What is this garbage xD This is literally my first battle post for a looooong time <33 also, sorry for the wait ily non omnis moriar

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He always told himself to be careful in spars amongst his brethren.   The Reaper was a caustic balance of control and composure, but violence brewed too far into his blood and his bones to ever be fully swayed. He’d fought alongside his fellow leaders and spurned the pain they’d caused him with assaults and demolitions of his own. He’d watched them falter, glare, and grate against his senses because he should’ve been capable of restraining his ferocious, vile nature.   Would that happen again? Would he be forced to curb and limit his devilish tendencies? Or would he have to lecture her on holding back upon compatriots?   He narrowed his eyes, watched her accept the invitation to skirmishes – not a battle, not a campaign, but practice (what he told his heart and soul and all the vile incantations layered between).   What she did, however, was so unexpected, so utterly bizarre to him that all thoughts, all sentiments towards constraint were disregarded. She came at him much like a child did with their mother, a foal bounding with limbs akimbo and splayed over their dam’s withers, gangly, awkward, young, fresh, and foolish. Why anyone would try to do it to him befuddled the cretin.   Was this all she’d seen? Was this how she thought soldiers fought? Was this what she’d watched from battlefields and crusades? His mind was overwrought with confusion, spiraling against his Machiavellian ruminations, having nothing to conquer the oddity of the moment except a widening of his eyes and a slackening feature of his jaw. He didn’t reign in acrimony or defiance, but in utter disbelief.   Mystified and irked, irritated and exasperated (because hugging didn’t happen in fights – or anywhere in his jurisdiction), he attempted to pull away from her reaching hooves, retreating in the soft abyss of snow.   But perhaps she was too fast, and he’d been too slow-witted, because her chest knocked into his and his lungs seized with a shortness of breath, a binding, unwinding blemish of pain and anarchy. He gasped urgently, nearly panicking from the lack of oxygen, trying to regain the lost sensation of air surging through his nares. The beast attempted to raise himself higher and higher, where she couldn’t clamber or climb. But his senses were riddled and mired, and the bearing of her weight suddenly across his withers didn’t allow him to escape.   Was he to be trapped by an embrace?   Frustration swept across his features, brows furrowed, and rage enacted amidst his eyes while his wild, vicious figure was being pulled down into purgatory by some ridiculous female.   This wasn’t practice. This was foolishness.   Her teeth bit at his left cheek and poll and removed hair. Her hooves scraped along the left side of his withers, leaving remnants of pelt and quick, blunt, brutal marks of blood behind. The sparks of pain, the ridiculousness of the situation (was she trying to make a fool of him?), sparked and incensed the vehement coils of his skull, and so, instead of pulling away, instead of embarking on a retreat, he pushed.   The footing didn’t allow the full brunt of his power, he could feel his hooves dig in and then slip (reaching for something not quite there, nothing firm, nothing compacted). Her weight along the front of his frame didn’t help either, but he’d had enough of the silly, juvenile games and the sensation of ineptitude. Tangere’s education would start now.   He caught his breath, lowered himself, and tried thrusting his brawny, muscular frame towards her, hoping to ram his left shoulder into her right one, yearning to throw her off balance, to parry her away from her strange siege. As they broke apart, he felt her hooves scrape one last time, down the length of his withers and elongating a long bloody laceration behind the curve of his shoulder and down towards his elbow. The pain was expected, compressing his mind to singular sensations and motions, gestures and movements, fueling more and more rage into his already churning mind. The soreness was already there, throttling and eager, keen and vehement.   But he wasn’t lost yet. He hadn’t flickered away from control – but the warning was there, warring and toiling amidst his calculations. [1/3 702 words. * Tangere’s chest collides into Deimos’, leaving him short of breath. * Her teeth bite along his left side – cheek and poll – removing hair. Her hooves scrape along the left side of his withers, removing more hair and cutting away into some of his skin. * Deimos attempts to dig into the snow and thrust his weight/body towards her, hoping to knock her away from him and off balance. While doing so, her hooves scrape against him one more time, leaving a long laceration (left side) down the length of his withers, behind his shoulder, and down along his elbow.]

Teaching Notes:
 
Well, that was unexpected! :D
 
What Went Well:
 
* Emotions: I really liked the way you played Tangere’s thoughts before the spar here. Especially at this point: She is the hare that, just begging to be caught. A gnarly, wily and fat little hare, but in Deimos' shadow she's a hare all the same. So what is he, a wolf? Ah, no, much more demon than mortal, she assumes. A wolf would never do justice in describing him. - Because she’s aware of what danger she’d possibly getting herself into, but seems ready for it all the same.
 
I also liked this part: If she were collected, wise or at all experienced she would know to calculate things like the terrain, the temperature and how thin is the air today, is it going to snow – things of this nature. She does not take her environment into account, but instead skips straight to the subject of her opponent.   - It truly hones in on how Tangere is inexperienced and doesn’t look around, or realize, how there are many aspects to a spar/battle.
 
* Surroundings: I thought you did this important aspect of spars very well. You mention the snow and how the terrain could impact her movement. Think about that throughout the fight, utilize it in every post, and describe how the terrain could give her troubles or help her progress. Is she slipping? Is she using it to her advantage?
 
To Work On:
 
* Attacks: Not going to lie, I have not seen that move used before (unless we’re watching foals play around with their mothers). I liked the aspect of Tangere biting at his face, poll, etc., because that’s definitely something horses do, but curling her leg around his withers curbed the realism point for me. I used the movement in my post because Tangere rolled a 6 (and critical damage), so I had to utilize quite a bit of her actions.
 
I urge you to think about the differences in height, weight, breeding, etc. Deimos is almost a hand taller than her, which could make an impact in legs flying and curling over withers, etc.
 
I would take some time and look at how horses fight (either in play or actual, brutal fights – I’m sure there are some videos available). Since this is just a spar, I wouldn’t be trying to stab or flay your opponent, but ponder over what horses really do: bite at faces (check!), kick out, bump, and so on.
 
* Directions: I had to make up my own, so please, please, please indicate which side you’re aiming for, where Tangere is going, etc. I’m a big fan of honing in on left, right, using big spaces of the horse’s body (hind, shoulder, barrel), so it gives an opportunity for the other roleplayer to figure out how they want to take an attack and how to defend themselves.
 
* Grammar: You have a couple fragments and some weird wording, so disregard if you did it intentionally/stylistically. Here were a few that caught my eye:
 
Those full moon eyes dreamily closed and unaware of his approach in the soft golden light of the Aurora morning. - Should be something like remained unaware of his approach.
 
She is the hare that, just begging to be caught. - The that is in a strange position You could write the sentence as: She is the hare just begging to be caught, and the that becomes superfluous. :D
 
Make sure to proofread, proofread, proofread. Read over your post out loud to yourself. Run it through a Word document (this isn’t going to catch everything, but it can spot some glaring errors your eyes may have glanced over). Come back to it at another time and reread again.
 
To Think About:
 
* Attacks/Defenses/Dice Rolls: Think about how you’re going to have Tangere react to Deimos’ attack (if it hits, lord only knows with these dice rolls :D). Think about how much damage has been caused and how you can take it. Ponder over the dice roll damage scale (1-6 – 1 being the lowest, 6 being the highest, and 3 in between), and try to figure out how much damage is adequate for the roll.
 
Keep in mind that you do not have to always take damage directly from your attacker. You can also use your surroundings as a way to take in some pain.
 
* Emotions: Keep them up. How does Tangere feel about the spar thus far? Does she feel successful in getting a lot of damage on Deimos? What about after his attack back on her, etc?
 
Keep it up! Looking forward to your next post!

@Tangere

The shadowy body of Deimos goes from a regular sized equine to that of a different towering monster; one with giant's blood and bone. She knows in that half-second before their chests abruptly collide that she had not quite measured him accurately before she  decided to catapult into him. She's oblivious to the scratches she's leaving with her sharp little feet as their bodies start to separate. Her battering ram method does not fail her, but it does hardly anything to save her or instill fear in her opponent. The cling on theory is paper thin and laughs away in the breeze. Her gut sinks like its full of stones. He's simply too fucking big; her mind spins with frustration and tries it's best to reach out to her raven. He answers with stoic silence and stares coldly from his perch. Her flesh is cold and covered in a film of warm sweat, the moisture beginning to freeze so badly that she can feel it's sting against her bare skin. She's impressed with herself to land anything upon him at all, so you can imagine her delight when she comes away with a bit of his bloody fur between her teeth. The delight is so very short lived, however. Her mind is blinded her right shoulder feels like it crumbles against his shoving weight. There is a strange feeling that stirs like venom in her tingling heart that webs across her body.. When she remembers to breathe, finally, it prickles the inside of her nostrils all the way down her throat and into her lungs. Her adrenaline is starting to wane, morphing somewhat into fear, and the brutal elements are knocking about her many doors. 'Do not think about the cold. It's your home, your blood is as cold as the snow; let it be. You'll never be able to budge him; let it be. Give way. Give way, moon-girl.' The raven's words are muffled in her mind, as if he's talking through a wall. The empty feeling of loneliness creeps into her mind – why can she not feel him, or hear him as strongly as usual– it begins to weigh her down and then carry her mind away. Can he be doing this? Does Deimos have the power to mess with our bond...to psyche me out by leaving me all alone...? Phrixus can only gaze on, watching the pair through the dancing snowflakes with emotionless blue eyes. She does the opposite of the advice given; she resists his thrusts with sluggish power instead of gracefully giving way. She wastes precious energy and she's putting more pressure on a very bruised deltoid muscle, which very much feels like it's on fire at this point. Not only does she not possess the strength to resist his advancement but she gains no purchase on the snow, she just slips along like an eel. She has no chance but to stop fighting it and let her self fall in a pile on her suddenly very sore haunches. The thud makes her teeth smack together (luckily not onto her tongue or it would surely be gone). The impact seizes her whole body and she's suddenly in the present anymore. Her mind floods with images, some instances she remembers, but mostly it's just a bombardment of war scenes and heart-pounding sensations that recharge her fighting spirit. It seems like forever to her, but it's only second or two before she comes flying back to the present and back onto her feet, charging at him with all the strength she has left.. Her fear has left her and something has switched in her primal copper eyes. Her ears are buried in her thin mane, which is a wild mess now, mouth agape with her teeth wielded at the ready to find his flesh once again. She winces as the muscles in her neck pinch in reaction to the ever swelling area surrounding her right tricep. Her mouth goes for  his left eye, hoping his instinct to protect his vision will make him flinch and give her an opening to square up with him. She's smaller, but she knows one of those spots where your size doesn't matter. The soft skin  under his belly, specifically that fun little flap of sensitive skin webbing from the belly to the hind knee. So with her littler body aligned with his, her right shoulder leaning into his left hip while her right  hip pushes against his left side (either his shoulder or ribs), she grabs for that ticklish piece of flesh while keeping her mouth away from any retaliation by flinging hoof. She keeps her rump tense and tucked and ready to deliver a few defensive kicks if he starts to bite at her from behind. ______________ Summary: Deimos badly bruises her shoulder when he shoves her, knocks her off balance. She fights him weakly before falling on her bum in a sitting position. She sustains bad bruises to her haunches as well. Her counter attack is to lunge for his eye and then divert at the last minute to bite at his underbelly area. non omnis moriar

Image Credit<3


<333
@Deimos

sorry for how wretched this might be
i've spent hours on it.
but i'm not satisfied.

i'm literally embarassed at how long i've taken.
i'm so sorry.
your advice really is wonderful, i'm just in a weird spot for writing right now <33
so sorry x1000

Spars had always been a battle of equilibrium: if he could surpass the growing magnitude, the pulsing, maddening stroke of violence without devastating his opponent. In a challenge, like his savage, brutal revolution with Gull, he sought brutality, he touched barbarity, and here, stoking against his one of his own, he had to sharpen his movements, his motions, into smaller amounts of danger. He had to minimize, he had to control, he had to break away from the pieces, from the shards, from the collection of iniquity that made him whole. The members of the Basin should’ve felt safe when regarding him in duels. They should have known he wouldn’t cripple them, he wouldn’t ruin them, he wouldn’t send them to gallows or catacombs, to tombs or graves. He was there to ensure their survival, in another time, in another void, in another skirmish where they’d be without their King to guard them from one more stretch of chaos. But it was difficult – because he yearned to show them the layers of his treachery; that he wasn’t a force to simply ignore, that he was devilry and disaster, that he was ferocity and ruthlessness. So the combination of sentiments, of rolling convictions, burned a hole in his mind, warped and distorted, collided and escalated, until he was uncertain of how far to push, or the lengths of his composure. He watched her tumble against the ice, thrown off-balance by the juncture of his force, and didn’t sense satisfaction. There was no contentment in his bedlam machinations. The Reaper was just a mere witness, a figure, a frame, to practice and whittle against until she stepped too far or he lost authority over his own villainy. He waited as she regained her senses, her footing, clenching his jaw as pain gnawed against his skull, revolting and clawing, rasping and toying. He wouldn’t have been able to flee into the landscape if he’d wanted to. She came again, with no fear, with no trivial terror searing across her eyes, and he almost welcomed it (because didn’t that mean she was gaining something from their practice – even if it was more and more wounds upon him?). The femme shifted towards his left eye, and he immediately rendered instincts, inclinations, to slip away from things threatening his sight (and why, he asked himself in the midst of all this mess, why would she dare to injure him such a way?). He maneuvered slightly to the right, as much as his shoulders and lacerations dared, and ended up bombarded elsewhere. He’d been duped. He’d been tricked. He’d been fooled, like some ridiculous colt, like a silly child. The Reaper should’ve known better, should’ve seen it coming. Instead, he was left to simply stand there, twisting and turning away from the burning reels of agony. His mouth, betraying the crushing reel of torture, released a huff, a gasp, and strangled it back into his throat on a sharp inhale. Something ferocious and exasperating scaled along the barriers of his cranium, something more than just the pain erupting from her teeth scraping against his hide (another laceration, it seemed, dribbling and opening along his left flank and crossing over to his stifle, burrowing against more onslaughts, more terrors). The demon knew the nuances, the thoughts, the feelings as frustration, as irritation, as maddening rage, and he couldn’t act upon any of it, couldn’t seek her flesh and bone. He couldn’t drive his horn straight through her side. He couldn’t send her away in pieces, in parcels, of flesh and sinew. He could only endure. But the King was too near, too close, to not punish her for playing with fire, for ruining his hide, for blinding his views with naught but misery and suffering. He’d teach her something. She’d learn and grow from the experience of tormenting the Reaper. He didn’t need to maneuver too far or too much – the scenery and his wounds plagued against him anyway. Instead of chasing, instead of hunting, the infidel twisted his cranium to the left, eyes narrowed, watching, as her hind seemed to be drifting away, and felt the embers stirring along his lungs, across his flesh, rippling past the tangles of merciless vows. They strung and stung together in a bounty of coiled blazes and dastardly infernos, releasing as soon as his jaws parted in a fury, in a flurry. Three puffs of fire were brandished towards her hips, croup, and hind, beautiful and vicious, unrelenting and deceitful, a representation of his toiling, merciless grace. [2/3. 756 words. * As Tangere deceives him by coming towards his left eye, Deimos tries to twist away to the right. During this time, her teeth leave their mark on his flank, extending a long, bleeding laceration from his left flank to his left stifle. * Hoping to catch her before she escapes, Deimos twists his head back to the left, and releases three fireballs towards her hind end.]

@Tangere

Teaching Notes:

What Went Well:

* Attacks: Ah yes, this one in particular made so much more sense to me! Horses, especially in play, usually go for their buddies’ faces, etc. I thought it was clever of Tangere to try and go towards Deimos’ eye (because who doesn’t want to protect their eyesight?), and then actually go for another area entirely.

* Surroundings: Still a nice use of the ice and other terrain – especially when Tangere had a difficult time with the footing after Deimos knocked her about: She wastes precious energy and she's putting more pressure on a very bruised deltoid muscle, which very much feels like it's on fire at this point. Not only does she not possess the strength to resist his advancement but she gains no purchase on the snow, she just slips along like an eel. Now, my question is – how difficult was it for her to try and reach him again across the snow/ice?

* Emotions: You’ve utilized a good amount of emotion here, especially with her companion. I’ve been left wondering why on earth he’s not helping her on numerous occasions! :D You’ve also used pain really well in coordinating with her sentiments and movements. I especially liked: There is a strange feeling that stirs like venom in her tingling heart that webs across her body.. When she remembers to breathe, finally, it prickles the inside of her nostrils all the way down her throat and into her lungs. Her adrenaline is starting to wane, morphing somewhat into fear, and the brutal elements are knocking about her many doors.

And this: 'Do not think about the cold. It's your home, your blood is as cold as the snow; let it be. You'll never be able to budge him; let it be. Give way. Give way, moon-girl.' The raven's words are muffled in her mind, as if he's talking through a wall. The empty feeling of loneliness creeps into her mind – why can she not feel him, or hear him as strongly as usual– it begins to weigh her down and then carry her mind away. Can he be doing this? Does Deimos have the power to mess with our bond...to psyche me out by leaving me all alone...? leaves me with so many questions! Why is her companion telling her to stop? Why isn’t there a good connection between the two? Very interesting!

To Work On:

* Directions: Now, thank you for your use of directional pieces. However, I was very confused with this part:

So with her littler body aligned with his, her right shoulder leaning into his left hip while her right  hip pushes against his left side (either his shoulder or ribs), she grabs for that ticklish piece of flesh while keeping her mouth away from any retaliation by flinging hoof. She keeps her rump tense and tucked and ready to deliver a few defensive kicks if he starts to bite at her from behind. Previously, she’d been aiming for his left eye, which means she’s either coming from his left (passing in a left to left fashion) or his hind (with his frame being on her right). But here, you have her right shoulder aligning with his left hip, which meant she went backwards from where she was around his eye? I scratched my head a couple of times. Maybe I’m not reading it clearly. XD

* Damage Taking: He rolled a 6, which of course was unfortunate and meant she had to take some heavy damage. I totally get it. However, we don’t want our ponies to fall down during spars. It’s a big no-no (unless you’re playing for DRAMA ;D). Think of alternate ways she could take the damage. Maybe near-falling/stumbling/scraping herself against the ice so she doesn’t have to take all of the damage on that particular attack (I know it was a crit hit and its advised to take it all on one hit, but just advice/thoughts for the future), or so you don’t end up doing something detrimental to your scoring.

* Grammar: Nit-picky Heather comes back to town!

…the moisture beginning to freeze so badly that she can feel it's sting against her bare skin. Should be its.

Not only does she not possess the strength to resist his advancement but she gains no purchase on the snow, she just slips along like an eel. - There’s something about this that reads very awkward to me. Maybe if the sentence was: Not only does she fail to possess the strength to resist his advancement, but she also gains no purchase…? I think it’s the double nots. XD

To Think About:

*Overall, I was very pleased with this post! I think you’re really learning and thinking about what you need to do. Continue with the emotional pieces; they can only help!

His spurt of rage when she feigned a shot for his vision was palpable. A bit of evil bubbles up in a devious grin on her pink lips – lips that  normally sport a rather innocent and kind smile, one of slight purity rather than deviancy. In this dual she has gained a few things. A little more skill...and something else she cannot quite name. A small dusting of devilishness, perhaps? She chortles naughtily after her bite once again finds his inky muscles. Another chunk of him torn away by her...another tally on the board. The sting of her own cuts and bruises are dulled for the moment. The true levity of her injuries will hit her soon enough, but for now she moves away victoriously with pieces of Deimos clenched between her yellow teeth. 'Fire!' Phrixus witnesses the birth of flame welling inside the King and his reaction is a blessing. He provides a swift warning to the pale unicorn; for she is completely unaware and moving away feeling victorious. She is surprised when she turns her head to view her impending fiery doom... that is real fucking fire! She's never taken on fire before! There is no time to think of that, of course, right now she must react. With a slip and an almost fall (damn snow) she  tries to throw herself from the destructive path of those hot projectiles... She is only half successful in this valiant endeavor. Two of them find their mark and  the third singes the fire up her left side. Her tail is nearly burned away, still smoking, and the rest of her hind end is charcoal black with her thick winter coat burn almost down to her skin. She is trotting away as she turns in horror to examine her smoking bum. The burning sensation sets in on her rump and on the backs of her hind legs. Her fur is charred away, black and pink with the freshness of her burns. Her shoulder has a small streak of burnt flesh, but it pales in comparison to the rush of pain that starts to set in all over now. Half of her is blackened and singed, her beautiful winter coat destroyed, her tail burnt to almost a nub and her body bruised all over. She has one more idea left...gasoline left for one more ride. Her bird has been sitting with patience in the arms of the firs that surround their snowy battleground. Watching her patiently as she learns the trials of battle for the first time in her adult life. It's his turn to join in and lend a bit of aid to his struggling pal. Tangere spins to face her bigger, scarier opponent with a determined face. Her thin forelock is stuck to her forehead with sweat, centered on her her small milky face. Her whole body rib-cage swells and deflates  with each inhale and exhale, her nostrils are wet and flashing their delicate pink insides. Like a fuse that finds spark to explodes into sudden motion. From zero to wind in a second. She charges for his  right shoulder at full speed.  She has learned how to move a little better in the ever shifting terrain. She stays low and centers whatever heaviness she can manage; throwing her weight into her front to keep from slipping. The space between them is gobbled up in only a few strides. Just before she reaches the towering Reaper a screech erupts on his opposite (left) side. Phrixus descends with his talons held out toward Deimos's face. Tangere cease the moment of whatever his reaction may be to hop up in a half rear against his shoulder and grab for his left ear, pulling down if she manages to actually catch him where she intends to. The idea is that the  screeching, flapping, and potentially clawing bird will encourage him to stay in place while she attempts her attack. She hopes this distraction will make it easier to snatch a quick grip on his sensitive ear. Attack: 3/3 Words: 739 Summary: Tang takes on burns and a destroyed coat from the landed fireballs. Phrixus finally helps, hovering above Deimos's face to stop him from moving forward while Tangere grabs for his ear in one last shot to subdue him. Total Injuries: Banged Up Shoulder, badly bruised Sore Bum Burnt Bum, Burnt Shoulder, Singed Off Tail Destroyed Pretty Coat non omnis moriar

Image Credit<3

@Deimos
Thank you so much for all your help and patience :3
I really have learned a lot and I have tried my best to really listen.

I am still working on things and rereading your advice. You've certainly helped me grasp this whole battling thing a lot better. I'm trying to focus on fluidity and getting my directions right (so sorry btw). Also i took your advice about watching some videos and doing some reading on the mustang stallions out west in the u.s. .. VERY HELPFUL

I can't thank you enough for being so patient as I know I cut it way close with the deadlines!

<3

Satisfaction, contentment, coiled around his black, decrepit heart as his attacks rippled; smoking, dastardly, treacherous embers tarnishing the layers of Tangere’s coat. He watched, the silent observer, the quiet, bestial monarch, as she was devoured in flames. Maybe, if she were an actual enemy, he wouldn’t feel the snarl of guilt creep in amongst the appeasement. Then, something else ticked, scratched, and crawled in the back of his mind too, like blistering images of scenes from long ago: Illynx, incensed by his strength, Ophelia, reduced to stumbling in his wake, even Faelene, drawn back and away from his savage assaults. Despite aspiring to constant, unwavering control, to apathy, to nonchalance, it was clear that nearly each and every spar touched a nerve in him. They set him ablaze, alive, with promises of violence, with dreams of acrimony. It never seemed to matter who he faced, the nefarious, barbaric conviction of cruelty and ferocity still lingered, still consumed. But when it was against his one of his own, his mind always asked, always questioned, always tried to discern the twisting chaos, the feral expanse. Am I going too far? Would she scream at him? Demean him? Posture and retort, depict him as weak, as pathetic, for faltering and falling, down, down, down to what he’d always been (a monster, brought and bought from Lucifer’s claws)? Or would she understand his nature, his teaching, came from raw experience, from fields of war, from siege after siege after siege? Because that’s all he’d ever known? That compassion, for his herd, for his patriots, was still alive and well, and he simply didn’t know how to show it? He stood amidst the icy quiet and waited for something, anything, to transpire from the smoldering edges. But Tangere didn’t screech, didn’t shout, and didn’t distort her torment back upon him. She simply turned, and threw herself back into the fray. For that, he was proud. The Reaper didn’t tell the nurse he was pleased to see her still fighting, still combatting, still facing the skirmish. He didn’t say a single word. He merely allowed her to express her sentiments through battle, through anguish, through all the other ruminations rolling through their brains. They existed on a plain of parallel frames – blood for blood, honor for honor, glory for glory. She’d earned hers. Numbed by his own pain, he stayed, waiting, watching, as she charged through the ice and snow. It seemed as if she had more than just galloping up her sleeve (more tricks? More spells? More incantations?), for no sooner had she launched into her frenzy, did an eerie squawk fill the hollows of his ears. Distracted, deterred, his attention was diverted from the gray mare to an ivory, flying menace, flapping and shrieking near his face. Simultaneously, Tangere made her move. She must’ve thought she was horribly clever. If this had been a battle with him on the sidelines, musing, speculating instead of participating, he might have commended her for her efforts and exploits. Instead, Deimos fought through the torrent of agony crushing over his senses (the long, bleeding lacerations had taken their toll; he’d likely have to see a healer again), rising in a half-rear, straight up and up (larger than she, drifting closer to the heavens), so all the bird caught was air, so all the mare snagged was the void. Then, as he descended, as his shoulders ached and his body heaved a sigh, the beast lunged forward, hoping for one last bite along the left side of her withers, one last snag, one last snarl – offering his one last silent whisper of approval for her efforts. Though she’d made him bleed, left more rigid scars and stories for another time and place, he could admit that he’d enjoyed himself, and hoped (what a silly thing for him to do - hope) she’d learned something from their duel. [3/3. 648 words. * As Tangere comes for him, Deimos is distracted by her simultaneous attack with her companion. In defense, he rears up, and both of them miss. * As he descends, he attempts to bite at the left side of her withers. Final Injury Report: * Left cheek and poll have missing hair. * Left side of withers has a cut and missing hair. * Left side of withers also has a long laceration starting from their top, then behind his shoulder, and down along his left elbow. * Long, bleeding laceration from his left flank to his left stifle.]

Teaching Notes:

What Went Well:
* Emotions: Ahaha, I enjoyed Tangere getting some pleasure out of Deimos’ rage. It was very in character for her, the little minx. This portion in particular: His spurt of rage when she feigned a shot for his vision was palpable. A bit of evil bubbles up in a devious grin on her pink lips – lips that  normally sport a rather innocent and kind smile, one of slight purity rather than deviancy. In this dual she has gained a few things. A little more skill...and something else she cannot quite name. A small dusting of devilishness, perhaps? She chortles naughtily after her bite once again finds his inky muscles. Another chunk of him torn away by her...another tally on the board. The sting of her own cuts and bruises are dulled for the moment. The true levity of her injuries will hit her soon enough, but for now she moves away victoriously with pieces of Deimos clenched between her yellow teeth. made me laugh. Its got everything I’d asked for. ;D

*Attacks: Nicely done with the dual attacks! It was nice to see Phrixus finally in play, and what better way to use him than with a simultaneous assault! It was a shame the dice roll punched out a miss. :( I also appreciated your use of directions! Thank you! I knew exactly where Phrixus was headed and where Tangere was going.

*Damage Taking: The dreaded 6. I thought you did well with what attacks you were given and how best to utilize them on the assault chart. This portion: Two of them find their mark and  the third singes the fire up her left side. Her tail is nearly burned away, still smoking, and the rest of her hind end is charcoal black with her thick winter coat burn almost down to her skin. She is trotting away as she turns in horror to examine her smoking bum. The burning sensation sets in on her rump and on the backs of her hind legs. Her fur is charred away, black and pink with the freshness of her burns. Her shoulder has a small streak of burnt flesh, but it pales in comparison to the rush of pain that starts to set in all over now. Half of her is blackened and singed, her beautiful winter coat destroyed, her tail burnt to almost a nub and her body bruised all over. was well-detailed and I didn’t have to puzzle over how much damage she’d actually taken. And no falling down! Yay!

To Work On:

*Pain: Pain is such a difficult thing to factor in. You’ve got the pony moving, you’ve got them dodging, you’ve got them attacking, and all of a sudden you remember they’d taken damage in previous posts. Pain should prevent them from doing something. Maybe moving faster. Maybe not being able to escape. Maybe not being able to think straight, but it needs to be in there. We can’t use the age-old adrenaline excuse.

You mentioned pain in the above portion of your post, but then I don’t really see it detailed again. One place you could’ve put it was during her charge towards him: Tangere spins to face her bigger, scarier opponent with a determined face. Her thin forelock is stuck to her forehead with sweat, centered on her her small milky face. Her whole body rib-cage swells and deflates  with each inhale and exhale, her nostrils are wet and flashing their delicate pink insides. Like a fuse that finds spark to explodes into sudden motion. From zero to wind in a second. She charges for his  right shoulder at full speed.  She has learned how to move a little better in the ever shifting terrain. She stays low and centers whatever heaviness she can manage; throwing her weight into her front to keep from slipping. The space between them is gobbled up in only a few strides. All of these details could have been seriously enhanced by telling us that she was slowed by the pain, numbed by the pain, etc. Burns HURT. Even small, miniscule ones leave us smarting for a long time, and she received some HUGE ones.

Don’t forget her other wounds as well. How could those impact her movement? Do they slow her down? Do they make her only use a certain side? Do they make it harder to defend herself?

*Grammar: Fee-fi-fo-fum, here I come.

In this dual she has gained a few things. - Dual should be duel.

Watching her patiently as she learns the trials of battle for the first time in her adult life. - Fragment-y. If you did it on purpose, that’s fine. :)

Her whole body rib-cage swells and deflates  with each inhale and exhale, her nostrils are wet and flashing their delicate pink insides. -  I wasn’t sure what whole-body rib cage was supposed to mean. Her whole rib cage swells and deflates? Was body not supposed to be there?

centered on her her small milky face - Too many hers. D:


To Think About:
You’re coming up on your final defense post. I want to know what her injuries are (I know you already did, but lord knows what the dice roll will do with our final attack). How does she feel? Is she proud of her accomplishments (I think she should be ;D)? How does her companion feel about her successful spar? What is she going to do next with all this valuable knowledge?

I think you’ve done a fabulous job and come leaps and bounds from your first post. You should be proud of all your efforts, my dear. Well done!

And you made teaching a joy! ;D I hope I helped in some way. Let me know if you want notes on your final post too.

@Tangere

She has nothing left now. Running solely on nothing at all at this point. If she knew what shock was then she would indeed be a little worried about the numb feeling, the tunnel vision, the heartbeat drowning all other sounds out of her ears... She can feel the heat of her blood spreading across her flesh, webbing out of her through the cracks and raw burns that now score her beaten little body. Phrixus gets knocked off balance and almost eats it into the chunky wet snow beneath, but luckily recovers to swoop in a few wide circles around he sparring pair. She falls away from her failed attempt with a grunty sort of growl as he nabs her with his teeth. She attempts to grab for his right shoulder as he grabs, and lands, a nasty bite on across her withers. She thinks she can hear his snarl, but isn't sure if she made it up herself. A mirage of battle. Something in her produces a snarl of her own, a purring growl as he leaves a chunk of her withers pink and open. She reaches out to find a roll of muscle and fur in her grip, adrenaline lingering long enough for her to resist the temptation to submit to his final lashing. Oh and how wonderful it would feel to crumble into him, to simply submit herself to whatever, to defeat. Fuck that. She's come this far – she's not dead yet. Limping, scorched, bruised and bloodied, but heart pumping and blood rushing still. She sucks in a heavy breath and relishes in the bitterness of the cold biting at the inside of her lungs. Standing stiffly heaving breaths and letting the salty sweat sting her newborn wounds she tries to collect her blurring vision. Thoughts of the future flood her mind for a moment, but they struggle to move around in her brain...things are certainly not working clearly at the moment. Her thoughts are quickly fading. She keeps her eyes fixated on the stallion towering over her, her King, the master of them all. The cloaked man with a sickle and shadows that follow him around. Nothing between them will ever be the same. Externally it will probably not look any different than before, but this will always be  in the back of her mind when her hazelnut eyes meet his own abysmal, scary stare. Everything aches. Each individual wound does not scream for itself anymore. No, they share the love and  now her entire body is consumed in agony. The burns are starting to crust in the open air, her nostrils are raw from heavy breathing...her legs feel like they're seconds from buckling. After this she will be able to face her challenges at the Veins of the Gods. Her plans will benefit the Basin as much as herself. Obviously a visit to a healer is first on the list. Is...this....over...yet? She can hear her companions cries and sharp warning calls ring out into the frozen landscape. He's racing around them in wide circles, eager to see his injured unicorn out of this spar. He refrains from diving after Deimos but every few laps he dives by the stallions ear just for good measure. Summary: She is just plain old worn out. She's very close to 'passing out'. Not falling down or whatnot, or maybe that, but mostly just deliriously in pain. Sort of eyes glazed over and just lethargic weak. She offers a defense 'attack' bite but it is all she has left. Same wounds as before with an extra bite on her withers. non omnis moriar

Image Credit<3

@Deimos


omfg im so bad

<33

i feel weird about this one?
i guess im just bad at closing? idk.
thank you for all your tips! such a great learning experience c;

20+ HP gap, Tangere loses to Deimos. Deimos earns 1 VP for winning and 0.5 VP for teaching; Tangere earns 1 EXP.