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!