It would be a lie to say that there was no primal and trained satisfaction that bloomed in his barrel as his massive horn cut through the impressive, tawny scales of her left shoulder. Some part of him had wondered how his plain, non-magical, Dorobian-borne horn would fare against the mythical demigoddess’s scales, and he was pleased to find her blood spilled just as his did. And he was bleeding. Copiously.

A split second was spared to thoughts and decisions in the heat of battle—what more could his battered and beaten body take? What could he ask of it and expect it to respond? Though he was a King, he was no longer the battle-hardened warrior of his younger days. As if to expound upon that point, his left side shuddered once as a briny breeze whipped over the raw, exposed flesh of his left shoulder and flank.

His ears tilted back as he realized he needed the strength and weapons of his elephantine form once again. Then, his black-rimmed ears strained forward in time to hear the Mountain’s shaky breaths, the sound causing contradictory unhappiness in his chest. He was triumphant to have landed a blow, but dejected by the Mountain’s audible pain. His body once again became immobile while he shifted into his heavy, pachyderm skin. His torn flesh shouted in white-hot pain as it was forced to transform into a new shape—apparently mangled muscle did not appreciate magical transformations. He hoped that the wound he had inflicted on the Mountain would stall her long enough for his transformation to be complete before she launched her next attack—being immobile meant being vulnerable in battle.

The King was only partially lucky in this respect, as he was just finished shifting and thus able to shuffle out of the way of her newest rock formation. It seemed that the demigoddess truly was of the Earth—both his seed and his magic. The Elephant (both in name and shape, now) then rose on his stocky haunches (it was so much easier to balance on the large round feet of this form than in his equid form). His forelegs reached out to perch on the top of her amorphous rocky creation, with only a small spasm of protest from his bruised chest. His long trunk extended and aiming to grasp for the billows of her bright red cape. He sought to use the garment as leverage to pull her dragon body onto the sharp, long ivory points of his tusks (if he was successful in grabbing her)—hoping that the cape’s fastening around her neck would bring her side or back into close quarters of his face rather than her sharp talons.

However, he did not realize that Isopia’s rock amalgamations contained heat until halfway though his attack when his round forefeet settled onto her stones’ hot surface. A brassy, partly pained and partly shocked trumpet sounded from his reaching, grasping trunk as the heat transferred from the stones to his skin, leaving superficial burns that would likely be more of an annoyance than anything else in the days to come. Awkwardly, he tried to lift his front legs off of the hot stones while still reaching to attack the Mountain.

The blood flowed freely from his wounds (any clots were entirely ruptured by his shift) began to dry and grow sticky between the many wrinkles of his thick, grey skin, causing his thoughts to briefly turn inward. What was this battle accomplishing, beyond the spilled ruby liquid and discontented murmurs that carried across the battlefield? Large flaps of ears waved once, before slapping against his gnarled, silvered neck. Mbwene mirrored the action as the King’s thoughts flowed freely through their bond.

The Mountain would have her bags, regardless of the outcome of this fight. The Elephant King was surprised that this thought had already cemented itself in his mind—when, or perhaps how, had that happened? Especially given that he had made such a decision without speaking to his Queen or Specters. Also that he had made a decision while enduring such a bloody battle. Thus far he had lived in blissful ignorance of those his sneaks targeted—as long as they protected the Edge from other untoward advances and did not risk the herd’s alliances. Perhaps he (as well as his Queen and Emissary) should pay closer to attention to their eager (and adept) Specters. The thought of stopping their stealing entirely did not escape his fleeting, half-formed thoughts… But that would be a thoughtful discussion for another day.

Regardless, this fight and the Mountain’s words with coupled actions left the Elephant King with much to think on… Navy eyes grew dark as the battle drew to a natural end.


WC: 799
A: 4/4
Damage tracker: Gnarly, deep left shoulder wounds, yo; ripped flesh on left flank; bruised chest; lightly burned soles/frogs of forefeet/hooves
Summary: He shift into an elephant, shuffles backwards from the hot stones, but then burns his front feet when he perches on top of them and tries to grab Iso's cape with his trunk and pull her onto his tusks.

Tembovu

the elephant king