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