A General’s role encompassed many things: protection over their herd, commander of military forces, and sometimes, the practice and training upon those willing to rehearse for future warfare. He did not refuse Faelene’s request, the inclination and desire to test one’s magic and skills was an honorable feat and needed to be acknowledged. Truthfully (though he would never utter the sentiment aloud), after coming to a draw with Lace in his fight for freedom, the monster needed another performance to ascertain his own strength and dominance. How does one still lead a militia when they cannot ascertain their own liberation? What measured his success, the blood of the enemy, the scar of the opponent, or the victories tied to his name? Amidst these broiling frustrations that seared and scorched his veins, the pulsing, wicked madness of the aforementioned spar came back upon his membrane – he would have to be careful, cautious. This was not an invasion nor a challenge for release, he couldn’t spike his horn into her chest, pierce her barrel or watch, wait, until she was claimed by the Reaper, a fellow herd member would have to be respected, trusted and given allowance of lesser strikes. He very much doubted he’d be revered for slashing their Thief into ribbons, no matter how fast the Mender got to her. All of these views combined would be cumbersome factors, but with his motivations woven into their components, something ideal would come out of the passing crusade for both of them.
He didn’t know much about their sneaky, cloak and daggered swindler. Staring upon her now, they were roughly the same height and build, muscled but slender, the loss and gain over swiftness or strength were pinnacles he didn’t bother collecting; the skirmish would have to be calculated over other things. Was she experienced in the art of battle, and was busy swaying and deceiving him with ineptitude while she was truly gifted? If she longed for practice of her enchantments, would she faint under the prowess of his? How tough was she, how strong was her mind, her body and her soul, to endure and wish for the aim of his vehement derision? Did she choose the hour, the place, to her advantage, or did she merely desire the ability to polish and perfect something left idle?
Faelene delivered the answer to his muted queries as she began her assault. She launched across the open field, driving straight for his frame. Did she expect him to remain where he was, poised and eager to be sieged – such actions would be foolish and unwise, not only would he be maimed, mindless, and unintelligent, it also didn’t mimic the oeuvre of wars, campaigns and crusades. He would give her a touch, a taste, of the flourish of combat, the infernal, toxic heat of conflict and hostility, the brutal, barbaric, savage reign of altercations and clashes. As she neared his left, swift, quick, swiveling her horn inward and out, he shifted his front and barrel towards the right, hooves hastening to other soil, longing to miss her intended strike. He felt her sword cut into his left haunch, a brewing, tumultuous pain, not fleeting, not fleeing, that reminded him that he was not to underestimate her. He would treat her as a worthy opponent, a teacher holding a student at an arm’s length.
He retaliated rapidly. Using her close proximity, he urged his hind towards her passing frame, felt the strain, the tug, the building groan encased in his throat from the binding ache that traipsed along his slashed flesh, aiming a kick towards her left side. It wouldn’t be as high or forceful as he would have liked, she was a comrade and he’d already been given this loathsome laceration. He couldn’t force his malice, his menace, his hate into each attack (what is a General that butchers his own people?), but he’d still give her assailments, assaults and pummels, train her to brawl and exchange blows. Refusing to allow this new injury to restrain him entirely, he swerved his front end back around towards her frame, and if she was still in the near vicinity, hopefully find her left haunch ensnared with his enamels.
[703 words. 1/3. 0/1 magic used.
As Faelene comes straight at Deimos, he swerves his front and barrel to the right. Faelene misses his rib cage, but ends up cutting a portion of his left haunch. To retaliate, Deimos aims a kick towards her passing left side, and then moves his front back towards the left, hoping to snag a portion of her traveling left haunch.]
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