the Rift


[Judge] Sometimes When It Rains

Destrier Posts: 180
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.3hh :: 16 HP: 65.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Suli :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath & Merlin :: Plain Black Dragon :: Frost Breath Dingo
#1


HEROES MAY DIE


Destrier had never been one to sit back and relax, even when he knew it would be best for him. After having lost those he held most precious, having come to this land to start life anew, he knew it was what he should have been doing, but... he simply could not keep himself from doing the opposite.

Having found his way to the Thistle Meadow, Destrier lifted his head high, dark eyes scanning for any who might be up for a good spar. He did not intend on killing, or even bloodying someone up, no; what he sought was a friendly spar, something to simply get his mind away from all that encompassed it. Not only would it help to clear his mind, but hopefully, it would help get him prepared for his new life in the Edge.

"Has no one an interest in sparring?" He asks aloud as he comes to a halt, black ears twitching for any sign of a newcomer.

[ooc: Ignore the short post, just wanted to get it up before work. XD


Maximum 800 words.
Friendly spar.
No magic, companions allowed.
2 attack posts, one closing defense.
This will be in the Thistle Meadow, on a warm day, with a gentle breeze at noon.]


BUT LEGENDS ENDURE

Image Credits


You may attack and use magic on Des at any time for any reason.

HP: 66.5

Svetlana Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#2

SVETLANA the STORMCHASER
I was flying from the Deep Forest, the red fluid drying upon my barrel, just a small nick, but there nevertheless from Romani's teeth. My wingbeats were relaxed and strong, easy. I knew when I were to fold the black airfoils to my satin sides they would quickly stiffen and become a mass of knots and tangles and pains, but for now, the muscles were well-stretched and at ease with the familiar motions of flying. It was, indeed, so very nice, relaxing in this peaceful day, being at peace. Flying took your mind off everything. There were just simple motions- the flap of your wings, the inhale and exhale, the careful eyes watching out for hidden downdrafts and looking for those lovely thermals that ruffled your feathers and soothed your aches and pains.

But not heartaches and sorrows, no, not that.

So I enjoy my morning of forgetting, just as fights helped you forget and leave worries behind. It was peaceful, blue-skied, the sun warm and reaching the very peak of its ascent, glowing softly and cheerfully. In summer, it would last even longer than now. Summer truly was, perhaps, the best flying days, without the nasty spring rains, filled with welcoming nights that glittered heavily with hundreds of stars, just simply fantastic. Really. There were no other words to describe it.

The reason I heard a voice call out for a spar was because I was flying low, ready to land and begin grazing in solitary quiet. For a moment, I hesitated, considering if I should, perhaps, simply wheel about and leave with two beats of my jet wings, before I figured I may as well fight. In Svikruch, I sparred three or four times a day, regularly- so surely I could deal with one more now in this beautiful noon.

There was a thump, thump, as I back-beat, and dropped from above, aiming towards his haunches. I leaned down, hoping for my teeth to give him a good nip, before gliding past, wings stirring the grass, and with two strokes of my wings, I landed. Still my airfoils were half-roused, my beautiful appendages that I loved fiercely. I could not imagine living without the sky at my back. So I settled silently, ten feet away from him, and sized up my opponent.

Black. Rippling black, like night condensed into a muscular form. Handsome, very clearly masculine, muscles well-defined under that coat of shadows. His mane was soft and long and lush, as was his tail, a trait more distinctly feminine, but at least he fitted it well, this noble-looking boy. At least he is without a horn. As a general rule, horns are fickle things altogether too useful in battle, with that piercing point. In Svikruch, we had armour, armour with head-plates fashioned with stubs and horns and hooded eyes; we had leg-plates and wing-plates, wing-plates tipped with jagged lines of metal ready to cut and slice another out of the sky, and leave them falling to earth. I do not comment on this boy's appearance, nor verbally accept his challenge. Instead, I launch into another attack, leaping forward, rearing up, wings churning the air, more a distraction that a buffet or aim towards him.

It is my legs, my flailing legs half-tucked so he would only be hit with a kneecap unless he suddenly shrunk in size, that would give him a good hit to the head, if it landed upon his ebony cranium.

""


Word Count: 577
Attack: 1/2, 0/1 Defense

do you really understand where you're going with me?
let me tell you
you just have to trust me

Destrier Posts: 180
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.3hh :: 16 HP: 65.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Suli :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath & Merlin :: Plain Black Dragon :: Frost Breath Dingo
#3


HEROES MAY DIE


For some time, he wonders if his question will remain unanswered. He see's not one other soul here in the meadow, which is a surprise in itself for such a beautiful, mild day. The birds are chirping out their songs, bringing promise of a gentle remainder of the evening. It was soothing to just stand there and listen, but then, he hears the tell-tale sound of another; the thrum of wings too large to be a bird alerts him to just what it was, and as the sound quickly grows louder, he grew tense and bolted forward a few strides to avoid her stoop. Then, whirling on his hind hocks, he turned to face his adversary and began to size her up.

She is smaller than he, though she is not exactly short. Her body is filled out, he notices, so it is no filly he is facing. Lighter than himself, she has the upperhand when it comes to speed, and could just as well fly away from his attacks if she so pleased. His own frame, bulkier and overall more heavy, gave him a bonus of power. He wondered briefly just how experienced the pale colored mare is when it came to fighting, but Destrier had to remind himself that this wasn't a real fight; it is a spar, even if the mare didn't vocally speak up to accept his invite. Had she meant him real harm, she wouldn't have allowed this short moment of silence between them.

But almost as quickly as the thought entered his mind, the mare launches herself at him, rising onto her haunches and buffetting him with her wings. He had only ever fought other equines and the ocassional unicorn, as well as iron-clad warriors rushing at him from enemy lines. It was a sort of distraction he was unused to, and while he rose onto his own hindlegs in time to avoid the majority of her battering kneecaps, he was smacked roughly on the end of his muzzle by one. It sent a flare of pain through him in which he jerked his head back for a moment, but knowing it was not detrimental, he focused on his own attack.

He does his best not to recall upon memories of those great battles he has seen, for he needs to remember to keep his blows soft and harmless for the most part. Small cuts, a bit of hair missing from a bite, and a bruise or two were the severity in which he wished to deal today. Still upon his haunches and rather close to the mare, he reaches out with his neck to nip at her cheekbone, before dropping down to all fours. He is quick to back off, and with a flick of his tail picks up into a trot, moving around to her side to stage another attack, or prepare for another offense.

______________________________
Attack - 1/2
Summary - Destrier is hit in the nose by Svetlana's knee; nips at her cheekbone in attack.

BUT LEGENDS ENDURE

Image Credits


You may attack and use magic on Des at any time for any reason.

HP: 66.5

Svetlana Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#4

SVETLANA the STORMCHASER
The black horse moves, quickly, molten coat rippling over limber muscle defined in rough-hewn shadow and hard, rugged lines. My feathers rustle, whisper, their displeasure as I soar over him. His haunches are past me as he flashes underneath me, a deep black shadow on sweet green grass, as if, like Deimos, death has come to the herbs, and light has been blotted out from the deep form. Again my feathers do sigh as I twist the appendages back, the heavily lined muscles in my shoulders wrenching back and forth as I balance.

Flight is no easy thing. In fact, it is, indeed, a thing I believe to be more magic than anything, for how could we fly when the winds are strong and the air is damp and humid so we would fall? Magic, it must be; sorcery, deceiving, illusions, necromancy, bewitchment, alchemy, dark arts, wizardry, thaumaturgy; if not for the necessities of it in battle, I would not trust any with the dark nefarious ability of bewitchments and enchantments. Crafting, metal-work, forging, working the bellows, is one thing; maybe even occultism, the strange ability of deciphering the devious future, I may forgive. But magic, magic, even if it grants me the ability to fly, is something I will never trust; not illusions, not trickery, no wind-calling and other voodooism. Never would I quest for such abilities, no longer- it disgusted me, the shadowed arts, the lies of it. It was abhorrent, abominable, impure, repellent, foul, wicked and vile, magic was.

So I desire this to be a true battle, and I do dream this fight, this spar, will be of will and strength and understanding.

I come at him, graceful, supple, exquisite, poised, lissome, comely; each movement is at ease and knowing oneself, with infinite elegance, and my movements are a dance, and I move through the paces like water, muscles fluid, eyes alluring, for there is always the chance a man will fall under the charm of a woman, even in battle, but mostly, the ease comes from my knowledge of myself and my limitations. When I rear, I am water falling from the cleft of a rocky lip, but instead of gravity pulling me down, I am rising up. My wings, my outstretched wings, are soft and gentle, a warm summer's breeze, feathers splayed but yet delicate, kissing his warm body with whispering fingers, just so different as my knee comes smacking the dark prince's whiskered muzzle. As the inky, obfuscous male rises, I withdraw, with still the ease of pouring water, and I am gone just as he pulls away. But not without broad white teeth scraping at my cheek, for when two are so impossibly close, locked together in the dance of war, even if it is a mere little game, it is more than likely to come out with scuffs and chafes. Yet the pain remains minor, for I was dropping to my fores in a hasty retreat as the large stallion had come up to meet me.

He is tall and attractive and broad; I am not short nor large, but my beauty is more than simple, I am like the gods themselves, and I am compact, mostly, while a little on the more lithe side. For a moment, I circle, pace, restless beauty, and then I go onto offensive again.

This time, I come at his face, neck outstretched, ears half-back, lips parted to expose my teeth, aiming for a solid nip behind the ear; and should my teeth graze his hide of ebony, I would try to wrench his head away, to give him that brief moment where the muscles shrill in pain. Maybe a little harsh for a spar, but I am not in the best of moods of late, and can you really blame a sweet girl for the frustrations of her life? Especially one as I. Then I am slipping past him, angling my hindquarters to his flank, hoping for a solid kick to his round barrel. Again, I withdraw, study him imperiously, mutely, and wonder if he would dare to come after me again. I am stretched of late, and if he agrees to lay down his charcoal cranium and admit me as winner, I will be glad to take to the skies, and find a quiet spot to rest, and mourn my losses in peace.

Kri, and the Sun God, think me a proud fool, as do many others, even in my constant defeat wearing on my shoulders. I cannot blame them, but they do not know my story, and one cannot judge without knowing it.

""


Word Count: 771
Attack: 2/2, 0/1 Defense

do you really understand where you're going with me?
let me tell you
you just have to trust me

Destrier Posts: 180
Outcast atk: 5 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7.5
Stallion :: Equine :: 16.3hh :: 16 HP: 65.5 | Buff: ENDURE
Suli :: Common Green Dragon :: Fire Breath & Merlin :: Plain Black Dragon :: Frost Breath Dingo
#5


HEROES MAY DIE


It was when he felt a rough scrape upon his teeth that the stallion knew he'd hit his mark, revealing a strip of bare, pink skin upon the winged mare's cheek. It was a simple wound, one you could blame upon the scratch of a low tree branch, and wasn't anything to be particularly proud of. But it did show just how close the pair had been, locked in their mock fight, and the possibilities were endless on what he could have done if this were a real battle. Then again, the mare's hooves wound have been flying, making it all the more difficult to execute a well placed attack.

They were yin and yang as they moved about one another, seeming to hold one another's gaze as they planned their next attack. Her eyes were eerily black, with no color stepping forth whenever the light dared to shine upon them. It seemed only to last another moment, however, when the neutral colored woman came charging at him yet again, ears tipped back in concentration. Those soulless black eyes were impossible to read, but he wouldn't simply stand there and wait for her to get her attack in. Thinking quickly, he turned at a forty-five degree angle, turning his hindquarters towards her and putting his barrel at a skewed angle. It had prevented her teeth from meeting his ear, but...

Whether it had been a good move or not, he didn't know, for he still felt the blunt of her hooves, except instead of his barrel, they managed to meet his thigh. It was thick with muscle, thankfully lessening the blow, but that didn't mean it wasn't painful. It was a sharp, deep pain, perhaps a little too forceful for a simple spar, especially when it had obviously been meant for his less protected barrel.

It reminded him of a time long ago, back in Vallhea, during his first couple of years with Bran. He had always been equipped with protective armor whenever war was in the air, but when they were on a leisurely ride just to get away from the hustle and bustle of the village, it was different. Leather barding had been traditional there, and that was what his rider always situated upon him on their off days. On one such ride, they had been attacked by an unforseen enemy, and an arrow had pierced the Friesian's thigh. Normally it wouldn't have caused anything but a dent in the thick armor hanging at his sides, but the puckering skin of an old scar on his left side was enough to tell the story on it's own.

Although adrenaline was hardly enough to keep the pain of the kick from flaring, it was enough to dull the edge of it, and give him enough focus to judge his next attack. He would have kicked out, but the mare had surely moved well out of the way before he could. Pushing against the ground and turning on his hocks, the stallion plunged into a gallop, headed straight for his opponent. Given the short distance between them, he could only hope that she wouldn't have enough time to comprehend what was going on, or what to do next. Keeping his head up, the stallion made to run right into the mare in hopes to knock her over, but should she move just right, his teeth were searching for her wings, her back; anything they could get ahold of to cause another minimal injury. For even if she had aimed her kick to harm him, he would not go down the same path until it became too much.

______________________________
WC - 607
Attack - 2/2
Summary - Kicked in the thigh. Charges at Svetlana in hopes to knock her over, and if she moves, tries to bite.

BUT LEGENDS ENDURE

Image Credits


You may attack and use magic on Des at any time for any reason.

HP: 66.5

Svetlana Posts: N/A
Unregistered
:: :: ::
#6

SVETLANA the STORMCHASER
Who was he? This stallion, sculpted of charcoal and obsidian and ebony; the stygian. Was he very experienced? How different, exactly, would things be if this was battle and not a game? Very different, I know. I keep my muscles as relaxed as I can, keep my movements easy, keep my head cool. Inhale and exhale; inhale and exhale, relax. There was a kind of fiery jolt that ran through my legs, starting at my hind hooves as my kick lands heavier than I should've done on the upper of his leg. Once I would have felt pride for landing a blow, even if not on his barrel where I had aimed; now I just feel dull, empty. Is it fighting that has taken a toll on my fierce temper? Or is this, this emptiness, the Sun God's curse? I would laugh, but no; I don't really feel anything.

So. This was fair enough- I had missed his ear, missed the scrapes of flesh, but gotten a solid kick on him. He had bitten my cheek and I buffeted him with my wings. Decent. I come out not too much worse for it and he neither- he remains mostly untouched. My mind is wandering again, a flippant thing, and I shake it, briskly, trying to recall a sense of purpose and need; and in good timing as well.

There was a thunder of hooves as he came charging towards me, all ebony, and for a moment I marvel at the shine of his dark coat that reminds me of necromancy and dead-rising and other such creepy things of magic. Yet his eyes betray his coat, for they are soft and kind, I think, although they may be hardened by concentration in this game.

"Fly, Svetlana, fly! Faster! Beat those wings! DOWN!" It's father, roaring at me, snarling at me, nipping at my legs as I am too slow to get off the ground. I remember him telling me what an important defence skill it is, to be able to hoist yourself off the ground in a matter of minutes. "Always good to be able to fly away to avoid a conversation," He might say with a chuckle when his knees were not stiff with arthritis and his fading-vision eyes working for once. Father was old, certainly, of high-ranking and good servitude, known for his excellent in the field. And that was how he wrangled Mother, as he liked to say, Hanna the Divine. It had come in handy, here and there, and in this field there were no trees to trap my wings. Only this stallion barreling at me.

The grass stirs beneath me as my wings down-stroke, churning the air as I rise off the ground. I can almost hear Father yelling at me, shouting to get up faster. The speed of my wing-beats increase, and the shoulders in my muscle ache as they fill with lactic acid. Faster, faster, I urge myself, and it is by luck, I realize with dismay, not my speed, that I am two feet above his head by the time he arrives below me. For the first time I speak to him, this dark horse-

"Thank you, warrior!" The words are harsh and grating, even more-so than usual, maybe because of the memories dragged up with Father's strict lessons of flying. The day is clear and the sky is blue, begging for me to come and embrace it- so with my shadow cast onto the ever-black horse below me, I take off, higher and higher into this baby-blue day. Soon the wind is carrying me up and above the sun-soaked land below.



EDIT: COMPLETE

Word Count: 609
Attack: 1/2, 1/1 Defence

do you really understand where you're going with me?
let me tell you
you just have to trust me

Official Posts: 847
Administrator
Stallion :: Equine :: ::
Official
#7
Default win to Destrier as Svetlana is now dead? =/ I can still judge it, just doesn't seem as useful now, but up to Elope.

Tor Posts: 197
World's Edge Nurse
Mare :: Equine :: 17.1 :: 9
Adoptable
#8
VP is welcome to Dingo and there's no need to judge. It will save you time.
WORDS OF COMPASSION ARE STRONGER THAN ANY ACT OF POWER.


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