(02-22-2016, 06:07 AM)Cirrus Wrote:

Into this world we're thrown Cirrus fought. She fought, and she felt alive because of it. The mare was never one to shirk from a fight, a spar, a test of one's body against another's - and that was one of the many reasons why she was walking the path of a warrior (though she was yet to make that official). A warrior, she thought as she went through the motions of war, with the ability to heal. To heal, and to destroy - all that mattered was the order in which one used their abilities. The thoughts trickled through her mind, slowly but surely adding to the definition that was Cirrus - what she was, who she was, who she was becoming. The Earth Lord had gifted her with the ability to heal, he had blessed her rain with the power to rejuvenate, to restore - wash she squandering that gift by choosing the path of her father anyway? The Ardent had wanted her only to heal, yet he had allowed her to attend all of the warrior's training that he held on the desert sands, he hadn't denied her the opportunity to spar and learn even while she studied beneath the Illuminant's wise teachings. Every footstep she made, every bite she landed, every beating she took in return, further cemented her resolve, her decision. Perhaps, after this scuffle, she would have grown the courage to finally actually approach the Champions of her home and ask - no, prove - that she was worthy of a position in their ranks. A simple life of a foot soldier would not be enough to sate Cirrus, however; she would have to prove herself worthy of much more. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted. She wanted to be Champion. She would be Champion. To do that, she would defeat all who stepped in her path, with merciless efficiency - and that included poor, hapless Cera. The pinching of his taut skin between her teeth was a victory that blossomed further pride at her own prowess within her. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think herself as so much better than he (- perhaps it was simply realistic -), she couldn't stop it though, the confidence, the joy, the pleasure she got from knowing she had landed a hit. Perhaps she should feel guilty for inflicting pain on another - but she didn't, particularly when she knew she could alleviate those pains and aches so easily afterwards. (Perhaps she should tell Cera that, too.) Cera was slick and quick, he seemed to slither out of her reach like a bar of soap in a shower. He was hyperactive, mobile, his movement erratic and unpractised, his counter to her strike awkward and jarring. Cirrus could read him easily, the tension in his body practically screamed what his intentions were before he performed his (rather inelegant) buck to the heavens. The cloudmare ceased her attempt to ram him, to shoulder him to the ground, feeling the wind stir as the nearness of his hooves passed by her neck and shoulder. She bent away from the motion, crouching, leaning away, barely dodging the blow but dodging it nonetheless. He's quick, I must be quicker, she encouraged herself, not hesitating: as she watched his feet return to the earth she surged forward again, teeth bared and tiara raised high so that she could try and reach across his back, still on his right side. With a fierce, violent simultaneity, hoping to catch him off guard, she pressed forward and upwards again too, spreading her wings to try and encourage some extra lift from her shorter stature, stirring the powdery snow around them so that they might dance in a blizzard of their own creation. C I R R U S RIDERS ON THE_ S T O R M bronzehalo.deviantart.com

622 words
2/3 attack posts
@Cera