The Warlander is not far from the Elephant King when the great monarch calls for him. The powerful echoing of his name stops the warrior in his tracks, cornering him suddenly into stillness; like a rope that has been cast to ensnare him, Rohan feels trapped by his king’s less-than-cordial invitation. Dark-rimmed ears flatten and green eyes narrow, his lips twisting with the bitter shame that festers in his stomach (rising like bile to the back of his throat, souring his tongue with the haunting taste of failure). “Is it really necessary to yell?” Rohan growls to himself, hating the way a spotlight has been fixed upon him, despising how his weakness has been exposed and put on display for anyone within earshot.

If he had held any less respect for the mammoth of a stallion, Rohan would have ignored the summons—he would likely have wandered away and never stopped, even when the forested borders had come and gone, like a chapter written and closed in the book of his life. However, Rohan does respect his king (and he curses the needle-thin thread of morality that has tethered him to this land). Despite all the times herd life has chewed him up and spit him out, the Warlander cannot abandon those he admires for selfishness alone (not again).

Snapping his tail once around his hips, the striped warrior turns, pivoting in the direction of the Elephant King. Pale hooves carry him heavily forward. Each step feels more difficult than the last, like a march towards purgatory, ever closer to the judgement he feels weighing across his shoulders.

All too soon (and yet somehow so, so much later) he breaks into the little clearing his king has chosen. “Temobvu,” Rohan greets his friend and superior with a wry smile, though his voice is almost tired, laden with the load of emotions that have been haunting him. Lowering his eyes to the glinting light in the grass, Rohan observes the glass spear. With the pursing of his lips, he takes this as his judgement—a test of his own skill and reliability for the Edge. Unsure of the answers himself, the Warlander reaches down to grasp the weapon in his teeth: a wordless acceptance of this carnal inquisition.

He begins to circle, coming around in an arc towards the larger stallion. After a few steps he reaches an angle where the sunlight filters down on the glass spear he holds, the glare reflecting into his eyes. Quickly seizing this idea and the strategy it forges, Rohan lunges diagonally towards Tembovu’s right side, angling the spear in his lips. Thrusting the weapon upwards towards Tembovu’s face, Rohan attempts to either break skin or momentarily blind his opponent with the glare, while simultaneously aiming to skewer his antlers into the Elephant King’s neck. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, a resounding drum of expectation, not letting him forget the gravity of this test (and the cruel, sharp severity of his shame).


“Speech.”
Attack: 1/3
WC: 499
Damage tracker: -

He pushes forward, charging, clenching the glass shaft of the spear between his teeth until he can feel it grate against enamel. For the shortest moment, the Warlander feels almost weightless, with the racing of his heart and the euphoria of adrenaline lifting him from the mire of shame anger that has overwhelmed him. For the shortest of moments, he feels—redeemed.

However, despite all the tricks and fantasies of his crooked mind, Rohan cannot escape the shackles of his disgrace.
(Not even for a moment).
Like hitting the hard ground after falling, he is buffeted by the literal pain of reality.

The tip of his spear strikes nothing. Like having the rug (your safe line) pulled from under your feet, the force of the Sergeant’s momentum propels him forward. Betrayed by the power of his own body, he openly delivers himself to his king’s counter attack, increasing what would have been a shallow wound into an awful, muscle-deep laceration. His breath hitches in a sharp gasp upon impact, the spear nearly falling from his lips, while pain shoots from his chest, lancing across his shoulders and searing through his veins like wildfire—

—And there is something else that blooms alongside the agony; something far more devastating, somehow. Humiliation. A new kind of shame, one that attacks his mind as terribly as Tembonu’s spear attacks his body. (How has he failed so viciously?)—

All along, Rohan continues to stumble forward, his mind a disarray of panic, pain, and commands that do little to gain control of his hairy body.
Blood sprays from his severed veins like a geyser from the earth—a grotesque halation of his failure.

From the middle of Rohan’s breast to the left point of his lower neck, the tip of Tembovu’s spear slices a steep, diagonal line upwards. Fortunately (or perhaps regrettably) the sharp glass gouges a clean line through his flesh, penetrating his skin like a hot knife through butter (and oh how it burns). Groaning a muted roar past the glass weapon he holds, the Warlander half-way collides into the larger stallion before he is able to regain some control of his momentum.

Clenching the muscles in his haunches, he pivots himself back to the right and away from the Elephant King, awkwardly swinging the left point of his spear as he does so in a final hope of breaking skin.

As he turns, Rohan slips once on the slick ground, grunting when he has to land forcefully on his front legs to keep himself moving. Sweet adrenaline drives him with a dangerous determination, fed by the hot sting of his wound as it flares angrily (his chest is tight, pinched, and every breath must be forced between a needle-thin gap through the pain). Attempting to harness the force of his body to his own advantage this time, Rohan continues his pivot to 180 degrees, now bringing him around to Tembovu’s rear end. Trying to aim the right point of his spear perpendicularly towards Tembovu’s right flank, the Warlander hopes his momentum will aid in a deep enough blow.


“Speech.”
Attack: 2/3
WC: 525
Damage tracker: A bleeding, muscle-deep cut from the middle of his breast to the left point of his lower neck.

The spear’s tapered, clean blade slices easier into his king’s flesh than the warrior had been expecting.

It has been several years since Rohan had last fought with a weapon—not in all the time that has passed since his abdication of his homeland—and even then, he has never wielded a weapon forged from glass. It is strange for him, now, to not depend solely on the brute force and strength of his own body. He feels alienated from the heart of the attack, as if watching on the sidelines rather than participating; to be on the other end of a weapon rather than sinking his teeth directly into the flesh of his opponent. Like a spectator he watches, watches as his spear gouges into the meaty, steaming muscle of his king (his friend).

Hot, crimson liquid bursts from the wound (as though it is answering the call of his own falling, pooling blood) and the way it erupts is almost beautiful. The cardinal hue is stark against Tembovu’s creamy skin, spilling and scattering like rubies over the glittering glass of his spear (a color far too delightful for the harbinger of doom that it embodies). Rohan tells himself that he should not be so fascinated by a sight as gruesome as this, reminds himself that this is the blood of a comrade, that this is a brutal test for sport—

(Are they barbarians after all?)

—With a tightening of his jaw, the Warlander forces his eyes away from the scene, his heart hammering against the deep gash on his chest. Of course, it would be in that exact moment that the Elephant King rises to initiate his counter attack. Rohan sees the shadow of the larger stallion in the corner of his eye, the mammoth’s body silhouetted against the morning light, and too late the Sergeant realizes his mistake. For too long he has languished in his idleness, his negligence dulling his finesse and rusting his skill.

Pinning his ears, he attempts to dart to the left and away from Tembovu, but between the pine needles now slick with blood and the tight throbbing of his wound, his hooves slip. Rohan knows that he is too late to evade the brunt of the Elephant King’s attack—still, nothing could have prepared him for what comes next.

In the initial half-second of impact, Rohan’s body suddenly feels cold all over (like a dark chill of impending doom, when goose bumps pepper your skin and the hair on the back of your neck rises). And then—in one swift surge of agony—the (hell)fire multiplies to melt the blades of ice.

From his elevated position, Tembovu’s spear enters through the right side of Rohan’s back, skewering him in a shallow laceration along his side, until the tip breaks through the skin just above his right flank. Rohan can almost feel the glass grating against the bone of his last ribs, the thin layers of entwined muscles and skin (now bulging with the spear’s shaft underneath) screaming their protest of this ruthless invasion.

Overcome by a blinding pain, instinct smothers skill, and the Warlander pulls away.

The tearing of the stallion’s flesh as his body releases the king’s spear is wet and morbid. Recoiling with trembling steps, the skin of his ride side hangs like a thick fillet of meat. Had Tembovu’s attack been any deeper, or angled any sharper, Rohan’s breaths would already be numbered; however, fortunately all of his bones and organs remain intact. Only his shredded muscle (dripping like a sopping rag with puddling blood) bears the terrible torture. If he were any less of a stubborn fool, the warrior would have forfeited right there, but his pride is too swollen to allow himself to give up. He will not feed his shame more than he already has.

He has no choice but to see this through to the end.

Breathing in heavy, groaning breaths, the Warlander is reduced to a ‘hail Mary’ strike. He moves slowly, blood seeping down his body as the skin of his side swings freely (the muscle underneath a bright, bleeding red). Squaring himself as best as he can, Rohan grits the spear between his teeth, and shuts his eyes (against the morning light, against Tembovu, and against his failure) before laboriously swinging his body in an arc. Releasing his grasp, he sends the double-edged spear hurling through the air, spiraling in the Elephant King’s general direction.


“Speech.”
Attack: 3/3
WC: 765 according to AbiWord
Damage tracker: A bleeding, muscle-deep cut from the middle of his breast to the left point of his lower neck; a gash-turned-fillet-o-muscle from the right of his back to just above his right flank.

Rohan's wound isn't at all inspired by real life events ;-; ;-;

The Warlander doesn’t hear the Elephant King’s apology.

There are a plethora of things overwhelming his senses, attacking every sensation of his body until all the fibers of his muscles feel both acutely sharpened and dulled at the same time. The chaos of his black secrets and self-doubts riot in his mind, the haze of his eyes and ears straining to gauge the other stallion’s position and possible attack (never forgetting that this is a battle), but most of all, is the pain. The Sergeant’s chest aches and his side throbs—his skin is now saturated with sweat and sodden with blood. He can hear the steady drip, drip of his body’s lifeblood as it hits the forest floor, the morbid rhythm nearly in time with the hammering of his heart.

Lulled into a shallow haze by his physical exhaustion and the loss of blood, Rohan has almost forgotten that he had thrown his spear. Rolling his head beneath the weight of his antlers, green eyes suddenly open wide when a loud crack shatters through the cool morning air. Blinking rapidly to refocus his gaze on Tembovu, he sees a magnificent spray of glittering crystal. The king’s spear seems to have splintered against the force of his own weapon, tearing at the larger stallion’s mouth, and sending shards of glistening glass dancing across the moist grass.

As Tembovu turns his gaze to the Warlander, his black lips dribbling with blood, Rohan is suddenly afraid that the monarch will end their fight right then, when they have come so, so close. He is worried that Tembovu will look at him now and only see his injuries, and judge him incapable (unworthy) of finishing this to the end—that he is not strong enough to carry out the very burdens of his duty (and perhaps he isn’t).

Hairy limbs tremble from the warrior’s own weight, his eyes heavy as he stares at the Elephant King. So much doubt is held onto his shoulders (so much shame), that it almost surprises him when Tembovu moves. Rohan feels a swell of gratitude and pride that warms his cold uncertainties; indebted that Tembovu will not shame him into a forced defeat. They will finish this—together, this will end.

The king’s attack is more straightforward now, a simple and poetic finale to this bloodbath between friends.

With a throaty grunt of self-victory, Rohan manages to withstand Tembovu’s final blow. Catching the spiraled horn between the pale tines of his antlers with a rough jarring of bone against bone, the warrior sweeps his head slightly up and to the right (pushing more with the left side of his body, and trying to keep as much strain off his right side as possible), attempting to direct Tembovu’s horn so that it angles away from the majority of his face, instead grazing across his left cheek. The Warlander savors the hot sting (so miniscule compared to the raging fire of his other wounds), even managing a crooked smile as he stumbles back from the larger stallion.

His breaths are labored and he can barely remain upright, but past all the weariness and pain, there is joy in the warrior’s eyes. “Thank you, my king,” he rasps, we have done well.


“Speech.”
Attack: - final defense
WC: 557 according to AbiWord
Damage tracker: A bleeding, muscle-deep cut from the middle of his breast to the left point of his lower neck; a gash-turned-fillet-o-muscle from the right of his back to just above his right flank; and a streak of grazed skin across his left cheek.

ooc: I'm pretty sure it defaults to Tembovu because of the gap in HP, but if possible, I'd still love to be judged please! So I can tell how I did :3