amaris

dragonborn

The snow isn't crunchy.

The Sun is still too hot for it to be crunchy yet.

My breath can make it crunchy.

Your breath can make it solid, Dramyrth. Do you want to see me slip, is that it?

You wouldn't slip.

I know.

It was an odd conversation, held between dragonmare and dragon, as they wandered idly from their southerly direction to the northern reaches of the realm that was Helovia. Today, they walked, for the air was thinner here, and the thermals of warm air rising from the earth not enough fill the mare's wings and offer lift without expending too much effort. So they walked, the early morning breeze tickling at their pelt and scales, the post-dawn twilight painting the realm in strangely muted tones. Soon enough, it would be a dazzling array of gold and silver as the Sun mounted the mountainous horizon to the east; soon, colour would be born into the lands again.

A deep breath, chilled with the northern, snowy climes, filled the lungs of the dragonmare, as she watched the lazy way her companion drifted ahead on the lingering breeze. There was a purpose to their presence here, though their pace was slow and casual, they were aiming to eventually arrive at the Basin, to partake in the festival. The reason for their reluctance was unclear even to them - perhaps they were simply feeling lazy.

Perhaps they were scared of facing the lands that held her mother hostage.

Amaris threw the breath she had taken away, blowing it through salmon-tinged nostrils with a soft, airy snort. A silent tickle prodded her thoughts then, an arrow of caution, as her dragon, with his keener senses and higher vantage point, saw the stallion ahead. Golden eyes looked, and then he was there, with his deep blue tones and muscular build, the General of the Basin was before them.

The dragonmare offered a soft greeting, a nod and a smile, knowing that such things were more for show than anything else - theirs was an acquaintanceship of polite faces and political agreements, nothing more substantial existed (but that didn't mean it couldn't?).

"Erebos," she offered in her warm, welcoming tones, allowing a smile to curve her lips as an idea bloomed within her. A sudden, seemingly random sensation of recklessness grew with it, and she was filled with an almost overwhelming desire to unfurl her whip and see how fast he could dodge it. Such an act might be considered impolite, however, to the point where the precious peace between their herds might be threatened, so the dragonmare restrained her desire, instead posing it as a question, for him to confirm or deny whatever might unfold next.

"Care to test your mettle?" she posed, arching her nape and striking the ground with a strong foreleg, unfolding her wings slightly to increase the effect.

---

@Erebos Spar!
479 words
0/3 attack posts
Erebos is welcome to have first strike~
Just post-dawn, Sun is just about to show over the mountain peaks. Orangemoon, Frostbreath Steppe, slushy patchy snow.

sky above me — earth below me

and fire within me

amaris

dragonborn

The brief acquaintance Amaris had with Erebos meant so little now. She had sized him up then, as one always did when facing an unknown, a stranger, a new being to compete and contend with. But she hadn't challenged him back then; hadn't noted the way his musculature held onto his bodice in such a toned, athletic manner; the way his horn was held and swung about with deadly intent, accuracy and expertise; the way his eyes seemed to capture all that she was in one foul cerulean stare. The dragon-mare felt unworthy in comparison, clumsy, inept; a freshman schoolgirl asking the senior football halfback to an arm wrestling match.

For more than a moment, she felt very real fear that she had just invited this dark demon of the Basin to crush her, and that he was more than willing to oblige.

His verbal response was fast, his physical response even faster: Amaris saw the horn coming at her before she even knew it was intended to be an attack, the first strike, the first offense. Thoughts tumbled through her head, fast and fearful, wondering if she had done the right thing in asking for this, wondering how she would ever come out of it unscathed, or at least, alive?!

The ground squelched and slushed beneath her feet as she moved reactively, limbs bending to her whims and will as the steed neared, letting fear spur her on, for it would surely play a part in letting her survive this.

Dramyrth remained disengaged from the fray, a passive audience, flying high above them - he would not 'intervene' unless one or both of the stallion's bonded comrades deigned to cause damaged to his beloved (and should that happen, his fury would be unmatched).

It was the soft, slightly slippery ground that did the dragon-mare the most favour in this initial scuffle, for as she ducked away to the left, a slight slip in her step also allowed the area he aimed for to duck down, causing the tip of his horn to glance off the top of her withers, catching on a few scales and drawing a fine line in them (reminiscent of another recent spar, of another horn scratching a similar path), a fine channel of silver blood left in its wake . The motion of her wings, splaying and then flapping to regain her balance and composure likely aided this action, the right wing potentially smacking the steed across the side of his head or neck, not meant as a damaging blow but not denying damage as a possible outcome of the motion either.

Frantically, as she kept moving, as she gathered her feet beneath her and pushed forward (but carefully, always carefully, for another slip, another falter, and he would exploit it for sure, and crush her useless soul beneath his cloven hooves and pointed horn), Amaris shook out the whip that was curled upon around her tail, hearing it sizzle and crackle behind her. She kept moving to her left, rotating herself and moving forward at the same time so that she hoped to angle her right hip to be in line with the steed's left shoulder in the few strides it took to disentangle herself from his initial strike.

Such a position left her rump and back vulnerable, she knew, and so she employed the best weapons she could when faced with such a predicament: her tail and her whip.

With as much force as she could muster without swaying so much that she slipped over in the slush, the dragon-mare swung her scythed tail and sparked whip in a great sideways arc towards the steed. The angle was awkward, made more so by her ill-preparation and the mud weighing her hair down, most likely rendering the attack not as devastating as it could have been: as her scythe almost definitely fell short of its mark along his flank or barrel, and likely ended up in the vacant air beneath it; while the whip, she had hoped to aim it high enough to sizzle across his thigh and wrap around his buttocks, would be lucky to snag upon his hocks, and curl around his legs, if it struck at all.

Keep moving, Dramyrth reminded her softly, hiding the concern he felt for her, the fear he felt, the almost overwhelming desire he felt to intervene, to contribute, to burn or freeze or bite or claw at this enemy who would hurt his beloved. But when her greatest enemy was herself, what was he to do?

Spurred by his words, she did so, hoping to put more distance between them, constantly moving forward, grunting in the effort as her steps became heavier and the ground softer beneath her.

---

@Erebos
793 words
1/3 attack posts
His horn catches her just near the withers before glancing away, she flaps her wings as she pulls away from him. Tries to angle herself to swing her tail and whip at his left side, but thanks to her derping the attack likely falls short xD

sky above me — earth below me

and fire within me