the Rift


[JUDGE] forgive and forget [ Rikyn vs. Wessex ]

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#1
Яikyn
There was something wonderful about having your best friend in charge of the military.  For one, it gave him a whole lot of power, even if the army he wielded was a bit lackluster, but it also gave me ample opportunity, as well. 
 
When I’d come home two winters ago, I had stepped into the army, behind d’Artagnan.  Though I didn’t know the aging bay very well, I did know of him, perhaps why, ultimately, I’d been somewhat disappointed to return home, finding our people had become fat and lazy in my travels.  That they had even made a Doctor the General (though I am, certainly, aware his title was purely sarcastic – he was a murderer, by heart, herbalist, by trade), which did little to ease my annoyance at meeting the then Haruspex, either.
 
Regardless, then, I’d felt totally like a nobody, probably because before then, in the Basin, anyway, I’d always had friends and family in high places to lean on, or hide behind, depending on what shit I’d gotten myself into that week.  There was something so vulnerable about being that nobody in the mix of all those somebody’s that had about drove me crazy, and so I’d left; it was good to come home, and have that old comfort back.  It was good to be able to openly approach the General of the army, and ask him for a spar, to better hone my skills, without fear of repercussions for the actions of my kin.
 
It was also funny who Erebos had directed me towards, after his moment’s thought; the smile born of restraining my bark of laughter still lingers on my face, despite the continued storm of melancholy and mourning which brews inside me.  Duir, moving alongside me, does not find it as amusing, and hopes that the woman, who I’d been less than nice to, gets a few good hits in to make up for my rudeness the week before.
 
"Oh, Wessex!" I call out, from where my blade brother had suggested to start looking, towards the direction of the caves many of the herd seemed to frequent.  I don’t really care who overhears me and thinks me half-mad.  Maybe I am, a little bit.  "I’d love to pick up where we left off!  I think you were pondering shoving one of your many horns where the sun doesn’t shine,  yeah?"
 
0/3
[ Summary:  Mid-afternoon on a nice Tallsun day, along the borders of the pine forest, in a nice open stretch of valley.  Several hills, and the evergreen wood itself, border the twenty yard space, which otherwise has even footing, and very little debris.
 
You are welcome to the first attack, or we can banter a bit. :)  Thank you for the spar you shesshie lady you! ]

there's no place to hide down here
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@Wessex

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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#2

RAISE WHAT’S LEFT OF THE FLAG FOR ME

When Wessex told Rikyn that she didn’t believe in holding grudges, she spoke the truth. There was no reason to lie. So when the gold-accented stallion comes back to her a week later with quips about shoving her pointy bits into some of his more delicate regions, she has to chuckle - for such is fate. Fate often likes to laugh about their preconceived notions of what will happen and what should happen. Personally, Wessex thought Rikyn might avoid her for a bit (though she hadn’t said anything particularly mean ) and then the next time they saw each other, there would be a moment or two of awkwardness before is passes and they’re throwing sarcasm at each other. However, Wessex is stoically good-natured and firmly believes in second chances. This is his second chance - freely given.

She turns from whatever she’s doing to the edge of the cave, coming to the rim with a smirk on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Glancing about, she privately concedes that it is indeed a beautiful day outside and she better fucking enjoy it before the weather turns cool and gray again. Rikyn’s voice precedes her view of the stallion, but now she can see him clearly, along with his companion, and with a shake of her head to clear both cobwebs and kinks from her neck, she moves to meet them.

The northern sun is warm upon her back, the light even and high overhead, and the land free of debris. She does keep a tidy yard – military cleanliness is hard to leave behind, you know. Thus, their impending battleground seems to be naturally chosen for them, and even as the Corporal surveys their surroundings, she banters easily with her soon-to-be opponent. “Aye, and I’ve got a hell of a lot more horns than you do, so you better literally watch your ass  A short snort escapes, as Wessex finds herself funny. Oh girl, that’s a good one.  Horns and head dip in greeting to Duir, before both her eyes and attention flit back to Rikyn, filled with both curiousity and mild amusement. “Did you have something in particular in mind?” Daisy –chain braiding? Whoring? Cloud-gazing?

W E S S E X
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@Rikyn  
Attack 0/3
Words: 368/800

You can have first move!

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#3
Яikyn
The dark mare arrives, offering words, rather than swords. It’s a good sign, I suppose, that she truly hasn’t held a grudge against me for using my magic on her, after all, but only my deer takes her freely given forgiveness for what it is, and appreciates it. I, on the other hoof, am quickly taken in with her presence, as many young men often are, too caught up in the conversation to take note or care of the fact that she was simply joking about putting a blade in me, not actually doing so.

A smile easily born of my unusually high mood makes its way to my lips, an ear fluttering back and my own humored snort (certainly more deflated than her chortle) offered in response; Duir tilts his crown with my own, his verdant eyes meeting the mare’s with gratitude, for her easy forgiveness of my bad behavior some days before. Though I’m doing better today than I have been, there is still a bit of melancholy draped over my entire being. I do my best to disguise it behind smiles and jokes.

I’m tired of people looking at me with worry – not that Wessex is one of them, of course. She doesn’t know me well enough to know that, right now, I’m not really me at all. Maybe I won’t ever be again.

"Can’t watch my ass while fighting, unfortunately. The General has sent me to test your skill," I reply, a quirk of a smile crossing my face at the peculiarity of calling my best friend by his title, rather than his name; if I’d known, however, that one of the options mentally listed by my spar-mate was whoring, well, the bruises for the sake of my blade-brother’s bidding would have had to wait. However, I instead quickly deduce that he hadn’t told poor Wessex a thing about the ordeal, which also leads me to the logical conclusion that the surprise must be part of the plan.

After all, war didn’t politely invite one over for tea before it bowled over your front lines, did it?

"Don’t hold back!" I call to her as I surge forward, my golden rapier angled ahead of me, the bronze shine of my shoulder armor catching the afternoon sun with the golden glimmer of my hooves as I charge for the slightly taller, tribal marked mare. While I might have reserved some of the battle against a person who claimed to be anything other than a warrior, designed to take blows, I expect nothing more than the best Wessex can offer, having trained with a real army for a brief stint in the past.

No one left those training grounds unscathed. No one would leave mine that way, either, and, for some reason, I think the storm gray mare is just the sort of woman to understand that way of being better than most.

The desire to press her to the fullest extent of her ability does not mean I charge in like a wrecking ball. While there might have been a time that I’d have brazenly charged her like I would a smaller foe, life has taught me a few things about the thick ones. Broken ribs, lacerations, and more had left me entirely sure that, while I might certainly use strategy, speed, and magic to my advantage against such a foe, I was not a match for the strength they possessed. That the many-horned mare is also much more compact in build than the gargantuan men I’d combated also lends me to the thought that she might be more nimble than they were, too, making her, as far as soldiers go, damn near a perfect specimen.

I don’t want to come to blows with her; though I’m sure I could run in and out and deliver a dozen blows to her one, a single strike from one of her meaty limbs would hurt like hell. I’m not about to tempt fate, if I don’t have to. Coming for her head long, wondering how one blocked a frontal assault with peripheral horns (having never faced such an opponent before), I also try my best to remain aware of my footing, and placement of figure to her own. Being able to get out of dodge is about the only chance I have, and in order to utilize my exit points, I have to know where they are.

Reaching with my blade to strike at her right shoulder, hoping to land a strike where her leather armor does not defend her flesh, I pull my head away, and follow it right at a canter, allowing my figure to fluidly move about at a forty five degree angle. Hesitating mid-step, I buck outwards, hoping to land a good, solid kick on her shoulder, neck, or face, not worrying as much about the armor (which shouldn’t defend her from the bludgeoning force of my hooves as much as it does my horn, from personal experience). No matter the result, I pull away and turn back around as quickly as I can, not eager to keep my ass exposed to her for long.

She had, after all, threatened its well being quite audibly before all of this began.

Duir, meanwhile, has followed my charge with slight delay, placing a fair amount of distance between himself, and the skirmish. Watching, as he always does in my fights, he keeps his attention focused for the call to utilize his magic, or to leap in and strike (only if absolutely necessary, he insists outside of battle, believing fighting to be entirely barbaric). He has also decided, on his own, that he will be the one to run and get a healer, if either of the two idiots brawling before him skewered the other in such a way which merited immediate attention…

Attack 1/3 | 977 Words

there's no place to hide down here
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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#4

RAISE WHAT’S LEFT OF THE FLAG FOR ME

Wessex is indeed mostly joking about putting a sharp, pointy object in him, but if need be, she would not hesitate to do so, as she imagines Rikyn would do to her. Forgiveness is easy. Trust, however, is a two way street, and right now, the Corporal trusts the Thief just about as far as she can throw him. A glance to the cerndyr registers Duir’s gratitude and nods back, but then her attention is drawn back to Rikyn as he comes up with a retort. “He would,” she replies with an eyeroll, though the truth is that she is flattered Erebos chose her over one of the other soldiers.

She should have known they were gearing up to fight the moment she laid her eyes on the armor. Stupid. Stupidly unobservant. To make up for such obtusity, Wessex alters her course and speed, opting to try and put distance between them - for an opponent will never simply stand still. Before, she came straight out to meet the duo at an easy trot. Now, she increases her speed to a slow canter, serving to the right, and into the open area. Oh, she knows well the game the lighter builds like to play - wear out the heavier types, dart in and out with guerilla tactics. But Wessex is confident in her abilities, and if she can start off with the unexpected, it may pay off.

Don’t hold back! he calls out, as if the chance to pummel his ass isn’t enough motivation for her to go all in. She snorts to herself. Idiot. These training grounds are hers, as he’ll soon learn, because in her mind, there’s no way she can lose to this egotistical bro. Really. She would rather die than lose.

It’s a good thing she’d put her armor on earlier in the day to reacquaint herself with its slight weight. Boiled layers of skin are hardly as heavy as bronze shoulder armor, offer enough protection for spars and provide a decent barrier against wickedly sharp points. This set is hard, but affords her some flexibility as the whole piece is made up of small scales which overlap each other. They were sewn into a much softer piece of leather, which has been stretched and tanned and worked until it lies comfortably on Wessex’s body - over hindquarters, back, and shoulders, coming together at two clasps across her chest, and two under her abdomen. Leather pads also cover the front of her forelegs, but her neck and head are free.

In order to avoid an attack from her powerful hindquarters, Rikyn must have adjusted to follow her new trajectory. She can hear him thudding along behind her, but must have misjudged his proximity (objects in the mirror are closer than they appear) because when Wessex pivots to her left to face him, she is faced with his horn, instead. She yanks her unprotected neck even more to the left, avoiding the sharp edge of his horn, but throwing herself off-balance. She stumbles - or hops a bit (it is incredibly ungainly and embarrassing) swearing loudly at the whole thing. “Motherfucker, you tryin’ to take my eye out?!” Because that would be the end of Wessex’s warrior career. She’d need an eye patch - and then she would be even less attractive and disabled… so overall, best to keep both eyes.

In the seconds after cursing at him, she notices that he swings out a bit and then his hooves come flying towards her. Wessex has no way to avoid them. They land with a resounding thud against her upper shoulder, causing her to stumble back again, half-gasping, half-growling in pain. The hard ground catches her, force of impact shoots down her right shoulder, and all she can think of while she pauses is thank god I put on that damn armor. Even with its protection, she’ll be favoring that leg the whole fight.

Adrenaline and indignation, however, are handy things, and her strong left side rebounds, pushing her diagonal and forwards - back towards Rikyn. Perhaps he’s about to make the same mistake she did, for as he turns around, she tries to curl her front half around and position the side of her head so that she can rake her horns down the side of his neck. If that doesn’t work, she’s also in position to bite the top of neck - grabbing flesh and mane to give him a good, hard, teeth-jarring shake. While aiming for this, her back end tries to quickly cross its own axis, so that Rikyn doesn’t have another target to thrust his horn towards.  

Maybe this time, that move will work.

W E S S E X
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@Rikyn
Attack: 1/3
Words: 799/800
Wessex takes a full hit to her upper shoulder muscle, tries to retaliate by attacking with her horns and biting the top of Rikyn's neck.

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#5
Яikyn
Trust; it was almost a fable in a world such as mine, to believe that someone else had your back, no matter how fierce the battle might become. My true friends, my metaphorical shields and swords, were numbered, now, by a mere two (perhaps, only one), and though I had a tool for each flank, it was meager armaments in the realms of Loorien. That I was so poorly armed, however, did not hasten my reach for new companions, either, having learned early on that brittle weaponry (and false friendship) was just what you’d expect it to be – utterly useless.

Instead, I observed, learning of the strengths and weaknesses of those who ebbed in and out of my life from afar, choosing not to get too close. I barely know this woman, so far having merely discovered that, while she is iron and steel on the outside, it had not been difficult to shake what appeared to be a mountain to its core, and that, also, she was ultimately noble, like Erebos was. Like many I had met, I had pressed my luck, exposing her to the most rancorous aspects of myself, as if I had already decided she would not be important to me, for no reason what so ever but that we both existed. Perhaps, I think, as I charge at her with speed, and restrain a laugh at her as she looks over to find me there, not the empty air she’d expected, that’s why I seem to have so few friends in the first place.

My tests can be rather ruthless, after all.

"Motherfucker yourself!" I cajole with a chuckle, somehow more at peace with life while in the throes of friendly combat than I have been in weeks, "some folks are fast, so keep your eye out."

My words close with the whumph! of my hooves impacting her shoulder, and the sound of her stumbling behind me adds confidence to my pace as I come back about. It’s a mistake, like arrogance usually is, in my fights. As I come around to face her in a counterclockwise movement, she repays me for my bad joke in kind; the sudden appearance of her horns and entire body hurtling towards me in a most impressive rebound I’ve ever witnessed draws a wide-eyed gasp from me, seconds before we make impact.

The right of my neck, near the curvature of my collar and halfway to my crown, explodes with the strangely cold burn of flesh being sliced, the hot spill of blood rushing down my black coat swift, and instantaneous. The pain is bad enough that I barely notice as her forward-thrusted shoulder butts mine, pushing me back with the brute strength her brawny form possesses. Glad it was a downward strike, rather than one that allows her curved horns to rend whole chunks from me, I duck down while shuffling backwards, toward the left, dropping my shoulders several inches, to hopefully pull my body out from underneath her. Her teeth land atop my neck, and I feel hair pull away; the tiny pinpricks of roots ripped from place and the bruises blooming about the violent clamp of her teeth are nothing in comparison to the burn and pulse of the triad of lacerations along my neck.

Wondering just what Lena or Enna (the healers he has met) will think of this predicament I’ve gotten myself into, Duir nervously looks towards the healer’s cave. Should he go ahead and get one of them…?

Suddenly without any jests or laughter, keenly aware that there is a timer, now, on how long this can go on before I pass out from blood loss, the grass beneath us takes on a red gloss where I dance over it. Rising back up from my evasive crouch, I don’t take notice of my companion’s fretful hesitation in the distance, and instead surge forward again, my horn angled for her left side; her shoulder or ribs are the intention, but I’m sure I can manage to get a good lick in elsewhere, if she pulls some crafty footwork. Hoping to keep my minimal armor between my fore and her, I otherwise move my haunches about behind me in a hope to maintain distance from her hooves or horns, forcing the mare to meet me crown to crown, rather than blow to blow. Moving backwards several steps from the first strike, I plunge forward again, doing my best to avoid moving my severed flesh any more than possible; limited, then, to the flesh presented before me immediately, I follow my initial inward stab with a diminutive upward drag, perhaps to create a bloodied slash within Wessex’s dark pelt, in turn.

2/3 | 787 words
Three moderate to severe lacerations on his right neck which are bleeding profusely.
Bruising along neck.
Tries to sword fight her now cause ouchie

ALSO LOOK I REMEMBERED THE TAG WOO

there's no place to hide down here
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@Wessex

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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#6

RAISE WHAT’S LEFT OF THE FLAG FOR ME

The higher the climb, the harder the fall. Wessex would hate to see Rikyn scramble to the top, only to be foiled by several arrogant feats of bravado and the machismo to forego a safety net. From that vantage point, he might suddenly find a reason to value someone who can haul a lot of dead weight up and down a mountain, catch falling princes, and pack one hell of a punch.

Wessex is the type of woman who works best against adversity; tell her she can’t do something, and watch her work until she’s mastered it. Tell her she’s nothing, and she will rise until she’s made the naysayers change their tune. Rikyn? He’s simply an elitist asshole who needs a couple of painful reminders that might does not make right, that magic does not always defeat physical strength, and that someone will always be watching him. In the mottled mare’s humble opinion, Rikyn showed her his true colors that night, or at the very least, what he is fully and remorselessly capable of; others may not see it because of their history with him or their inherent belief in goodness, but Wessex knows. And if she is the lone watchdog against The Puppeteer, then so be it. Her scrutiny will be ruthless.

So a blossoming savior complex, defiance, and need for revenge mix all together in her steel-cased body, creating a storm of confusing emotions that have but a singular goal: hurt him and win.  

Satisfaction rolls through her body upon contact, a guttural “Ha!” leaping out of her lungs as he takes a dose of her own medicine and she slides half of her horns through his skin. Her shoulder, however, cannot take all the weight from her retaliation and so she stumbles forward - which really only further aides her, as he tries to duck away. Wessex’s dull teeth close around hair and flesh. Swallowing the jolt of sudden pain from her shoulder, she clamps down and yanks back up even as he tries to back away, finding success even in her weakness. If she’s lucky, the pain of her attack will cause Rikyn to seek alternatives to striking out with his horn, but men are so obsessed with their phallic symbols…  any opportunity to wave it in a lady’s face, right?

Dry, summer grass grows slick in some parts from Rikyn’s blood, but the Corporal is thankful there are no rocks or large sticks to avoid, and very few outside factors which might affect her footing (unlike her fight in the sand with Erebos). Just her own bulk and clumsiness to blame. Blood brings tension thick enough to cut with a knife, all childish slurs and banter now unwelcome, cause shit just got serious. The kids just realized they’re playing with real weapons - pieces that hurt and maim and kill, and she wonders if he thought himself so invincible The warrior woman wins first blood, but the battle isn’t over yet.

Having pulled away from Rikyn, and he from her, Wessex’s balance easily shifts towards her hind legs, which is a blessing because her poor right shoulder needs a brief break from bearing weight. Pushing back (mainly with her left foreleg), she hauls herself upright as Rikyn’s horn comes dancing just left of her left elbow, towards her girth. He is quicker than she is; it stings, gilded blade nicking unprotected sensitive flesh just along the bottom edge of her armor, and she hisses sharply through her teeth, though the damage isn’t great. Front hooves fly towards the stallion’s from above, targeting his neck again, an area that’s already been damaged (perhaps in hopes that the crown is so heavy it might just… topple off his pretty little head), or his withers, but doing her best to avoid his bronze armor. Hopefully the pull of gravity would add more force to her strike - against muscle or bone, she does not care which.  

Rikyn darts back again, and when all four hooves are on the ground, the Corporal exhales with a throaty roar as the tries to bound forward on a left lead and use the bulk of her body to bowl him over or knock him off balance, which would provide an opening for another attack. When Wessex moves, her armor rubs against the horizontal laceration, smearing the thin line of blood into the fur around the wound. Despite this discomfort, the leather ultimately protects against his second thrust, which glances off her left shoulder, leaving a long, tan mark against the rich brown material.

She will not make the same mistake as last time - she will not gloat before it is over.

W E S S E X
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Words: 795/800
Attack: 2/3
Takes a thin laceration to the her lower ribs, along the edge of her armor. Strikes out with hooves, aiming for Rikyn's neck and withers, then tries to bowl him over, cause tank?

@Rikyn
-- please tag in all posts! --
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#7
Яikyn
It’s her turn to laugh at me, which is fair of course, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, and make the egotistical fuck inside of me rear up his ugly head. Probably won’t do much to help fix her opinion of me as being just what I am, either, as I scowl, and an added drive suddenly lfuels my step, despite the flow of blood easing from my lacerated shoulder.

Bitch. I’m the only one who can belittle people around here and get away with it. Who does she think she is?

The sun is starting to get borderline hot on my back, the sweat pooling in the soft folds of my body beginning to drip and run, splattering with my more forceful steps; the sway of my mane against my shoulder is a pleasant thing to focus on, instead of the severed muscles in my right shoulder crying out for me to stop, still oozing red blood to the grasses below. Ignoring their piteous cries as best as I can, and instead focusing on the satisfaction of my horn making impact with her flesh, I pull away from the landed blow on the mare’s side, not caring that the other had hit and leaves a mark in her armor, because at least one of my strikes had gone well.

Something to remember me by! I think of the gouge in her leather protection, amusedly. Duir, of course, finds it all much less amusing, considering the situation, and retaliates to my jovial jest with a mental image of the blood slaking my shoulder and neck with a shake of his ivy laden, antlered head.

No time for jokes, he bemoans, and I guess he’s right. I just don’t know why he’s always got to be such a kill sport.

I don’t have time to pull away before her retaliation lands home, too slowed up by the pain that the wound her horns have left causes me, though I try to stumble back and out of her range. With a gasp as her hooves impact my armor with a jolt, the reverberation of the metal on my skin is fucking weird, and doesn’t block all of the force of her punch. What is this woman? Half moose? I think, back-peddling again to realign our figures, and gladder for my rune-marked armor than I’ve ever been.

Yep, half moose, I regretfully conclude as the gray mare surges towards me suddenly and we collide, the bronze is still ringing against my bruised shoulder when I’m forced to quickly present it to her again. Grunting as she slams into me, I try and stand my ground, but my hooves gouge rifts in the earth, the sod building behind my tasseled ankles as she pushes me back several feet despite my attempts to be immovable.

If the bruise was only small, what blooms around the edges of the armor now, especially, is pretty ridiculously painful, and immediately tries to cramp up. Wincing and pulling the leg up instinctually, I force it back down, and grit my teeth with a pained groan when it sends violent complaints through all my nerve endings.

Deciding fuck it, and that I had little choice in tactic at this point, I simply push back into her as the momentum of her charge subsides, lifting up ever so slightly to hopefully lift my chest over the rise of her shoulder while pressing forward, fore-hooves driving out between us with several weak, bludgeoning blows, slowed by pain. Knowing I’ll need a bit of height to compensate for the difference in our mass, if I want to deliver anything at all like a useful strike against her, I take the risk that she gets my exposed chest for the chance to possibly put her out of the fight (or at least make her hurt half as much as I will tomorrow).

Mostly a ruse, the real intention of the partial rear, kicks, and forward lunge arrives in a fluid motion as my body begins its natural descent. My muzzle, tucked down towards my neck to protect my throat from her menagerie of face-knives, allows the tip of my horn to be strategically placed as I return my front legs to the ground, and with a gouging, downward strike, I aim to pierce her on the back, or right side of her neck, or shoulder.

No matter the outcome, I hopefully pull down her right flank as soon as I can get a move on, not wanting to hang out within her ramming zone any longer than I need to. Though my left shoulder hurts like hell, I’d rather her get another lick in on top of those bruises than layered on top of the weeping flaps she’s made of my right side.

3/3 | 800 words
Her kick hits him on the shoulder plate, as does her ram. His left shoulder is now very bruised and has slowed his speed and agility. He retaliates with a quarter rear, kicks out at her several times, and tries to pierce her upper shoulder/back area, before trying to pull down her right flank.

there's no place to hide down here
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@Wessex

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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#8
for there are many ways to kill a man they say
Clang! the sound of hooves against bronze is both pleasing and infuriating, an immediate chiding running through her brain. How could she miss her target?! But then her shoulder starts to cramp up and oh, yes, that’s how. Her forelegs must have drooped lower than she’d realized, the effort of continuous use and pain causing the muscle fibers to forcefully tell Wessex to fucking stop already. Pushing to move towards instinct rather than calculated attacks, trying to turn her brain off and let her body (damaged as it is) switch into automatic mode, Wessex is stuck in this half-on, half-off place. It makes her do things like go half-moose and try to bowl Rikyn over (no skill needed there, save to keep herself square and on-balance).

The tank hasn’t a clue where she’s trying to push the Thief, only that it bides her time. She needs to recalibrate, and quickly, for there is much to gain from winning this fight, perhaps far more than Rikyn has to lose. But the ebb and flow of jubilant success and dismal failure is a hard tide to ride, as each seems to occur within seconds of each other; the Thief moves as she exerts force, and then is able to stop her and push back. It’s obnoxious. She wants to shoulder check him, hard again, make him fall down and stay down. Her shoulder, however, protests too much and Wessex isn’t able to meet Rikyn’s rear appropriately. His hooves thud dully into the left side of her chest, striking hard leather instead of skin but she still feels them. Light bruises will blossom there later, but for now, she takes what he freely offers her - an exposed chest. Instinct tells her that’s an opening.

By her own sense of honor, his throat is off limits; he need not protect himself like that, she’s not some utterly vindictive bitch. It grates on her nerves, and rather than wanting to show him her power, this time she just wants to hurt Rikyn for that assumption. If he thinks she would do that, she might as well try, right? Aaaugghghggh, no - she can’t. Instead, Wessex decides to utilize a rarely used part of her arsenal- the horn at the tip of her nose. It is as sharp as the rest of her accoutrements, but using it risks damage to her head and neck. Nevertheless, it is the only option she seems to have if she wants to keep him relatively close.

Wessex snakes her head down and extends her nose to his descending body, letting gravity do most of the work for her. With any luck, she can pull her head up while the stallion falls down, and her nasal horn will rip through the flesh on the left side of his chest, from about the point of shoulder area and upward, staying left of center to avoid any major veins or arteries as well as his tucked nose. He should probably look out for her head spikes too, as they might be perilously close to his head. Rikyn is lucky she doesn’t choose to try for somewhere further down the length of his body, because that would have his horn simply sticking into her armor. No, instead his blade slices down the surface of her own neck, drawing a long, slender gash from cheek height down to where the neck meets the chest. She squeals and jerks her head away, body following to the left.

Even through the haze of the viciously stinging surprise and panting breaths, she can feel him brushing down the right side of her body, waits for a moment, and then pivots a bit more to her left while lashing out with her hind legs towards the back of his retreating thighs. It is lower than she wants to, as white hot pain tears from her shoulder down to her knee, lessening the force and height she might usually get - well, that’s ok, she’s not aiming for anything but his ass, as she (sort-of) promised she would. They aren’t horns, but a swift, smarting kick might just be embarrassing enough. Hell, even hitting his hocks or gaskin when if both fully extend (Wessex in her buck, and Rikyn if he fully extends his legs to move away from her) would be satisfying.

Satisfying is the second best thing that could happen. While losing would be so bad she doesn’t even care to think about that possibility at the moment, the sting could be lessened knowing that she beat up on Rikyn till he was black and blue and bloody.

I am Iron and I Forge Myself


@Rikyn  
Attack: 3/3
Words: 782
Takes his hooves to the chest and a laceration to the neck. Tries to tear at his chest with her nost horn and buck out at his retreating ass ;)

Yay! Good spar, Bunnie!
-- please tag in all posts! --
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --

Rikyn the Puppeteer Posts: 549
Aurora Basin Lord atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 4.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.3 :: 4 HP: 70 | Buff: SWIFT
Duir :: Royal Cerndyr :: Earth Spirit Bunnie
#9
Яikyn

I’m starting to feel like a tree protruding at the fore of a rolling spring avalanche; she’s just kicking my ass, and my efforts to not let it be so easy seeming to have little effect. Instead, my roots were ripped up, and I’m left just swatting down at her with green boughs that seem, at this point, better at basking in the sun than being used to birth bruises and create cuts. I’ve seen it twice, the actual cascade of snow, taking with it whatever wasn’t strong enough to keep its hold; despite the fact that I’m the one with more scars in this conundrum, she a newly birthed river of roaring force, it doesn’t matter.

I’m just a slightly antler-worn tree, and she’s an avalanche.

I never thought I’d seek to empathize with such a thing, but my life tends to teach me the best lessons through violence, it seems; I allege that being an assumptive tree in an avalanche still isn’t as shitty as being a twig in a Wildfire had been, when I’d fought Gaucho. No matter her attempts to swat me aside, to drag me beneath her, I am still here; it hadn’t been so for the man with the fire beasts. Wessex has fought with sinew, with teeth and blade, while the Wildfire… he had only actually touched me once, and that had been to simply punt me across the desert, like I was a stone, or an annoying gnat batted away by his tail, into the waiting, black abyss of unconsciousness.

At least, going blade to blade with Wessex, I felt more capable, even able to outpace her steps at times, and provide fair counter when I couldn’t. Each brutal swing or thrust of her arsenal was met by the agility and physical attributes bred into my through my swift and sturdy lineage. Sure, I was bleeding all over the place and sore everywhere else, but at least I wasn’t being forced to resort to hurling magic at her as I had other fights, fumbling through my proverbial pockets for an extra dagger or trick; it felt fair enough, though I was the worse for wear, because I was doing my best to coast abreast the sweeping strength of her onslaughts. Despite the times I was very much aware I was overpowered, the trained warrior in me knows that, with a few different decisions by either of us, the tide of this battle might have turned in my favor, instead.

I’d underestimated her, as I had almost everyone else. You need think more, Duir dryly remarks from the sidelines, gonna kill you someday.

Snorting, not having time or attention to muster any sort of sass in reply to the asshole cerndyr, I have a moose to conclude combat with. Kicking at her with flimsy strength, I’m glad when my golden hooves hit her, even if they do little more than remind her that I’m not actually a helpless tree caught in her rush; I have sharp and pointy things with which to fight back, and a good amount of wit with which to wield them. Twisting to keep onto her (distance gives her room to kick me again, no thanks) but not get pushed down in the process, my hind-hooves dance beneath me for balance, and I grit my teeth with a sharp inhalation of breath against the impulse to come back down, when my torn and bruised flesh cries out. I am overly eager to cut her open, and retaliate some of the pain that nearly makes me shout out at its rise; successful in my endeavors, she is too. A gasp of surprised pain slips from my mouth at the sensation, more blood dripping to the ground below from where her small horn rends a gash as I make red flow from her neck.

As if the fact that I’m leaking from both sides isn’t enough, the woman makes a final foray; as I move along her flank, deftly doing my best to avoid her hooves, she lets me assume I’m in the clear before her legs shoot out behind her, landing squarely on my ass with a satisfying, resonant muscular smack! that buckles my legs out from under me. Suddenly sliding like a reigning horse out of control, I plant a fore hoof and drag around to face her, my whole backside smarting like hell. Gritting my teeth and hobbling slowly back towards her, quite clearly done with the fight (mostly because my right ass cheek seems to no longer work for the time being), I wryly ask her:

"Sun’s Fire! Are your ancestors rhinos or something?" I almost laugh, but don’t, because every bruise throbs and aches, and the blood slipping down my coat is now painfully obvious.

Closing Defense | 800 Words
Thank you Astor! :D

there's no place to hide down here
Image Credit

@Wessex

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Force/violence is allowed to be used on Rikyn permitted it does not permanently maim or kill him (PM me!).


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