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 ;-; ;-;