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The time for idleness was over. The time lounging around the meadows and creeks growing fat and lazy was over. The time for petty delivery runs to warn other herds of subpar threats was over. It was now time for the honing of skills; the training of one’s body; the sharpening of the blades of focus and striking. It was time for Circe to emerge from a shell of comfort and engage her body and mind to the conditioning of battle. She was an Executioner; she and her brethren were the body of the fighting force of the Grey. They were the show of force for their clan, the claws with which the Grey sank into their prey; the Executioners were, in essence, the sole reason they were there. Circe would not deface her fellows by being the unsharpened talon in the paw. She would bite into flesh with grace and prowess.
Ah. This seemed like a good place for a spar; not too flat, not too unsteady on the feet; the grass was dry enough so that its dew wouldn’t cause a slip of the step; the sun was shining directly overhead, casting level shadows directly underneath one’s body. There was very little air to feel or be hindered by; the faint scent of dying grass and waning heat lingered in the air, yet it didn’t saturate it. Her hoof-falls animated and deliberate, the shadowmere took a moment longer to assess her surroundings, looking to and fro before finally letting her head fall, her muzzle kissing the grass as she let a certain kind of fury overtake her. It wasn’t an impassioned fervor; it was a cool sort of wrath, a sharpening of one’s focus, of one’s reflex in the heat of war. With easy, leveled breathing, Circe allowed her blood to cool so that she may meet her opponent with a sound head and clear judgment. Circe had lost many a fight to impassioned impulse; she had learned
Locket. As was customary for the relatively new recruit, Circe didn’t know much about the stallion. This lack of familiarity with her shieldmates was maddening; how could she trust her back to these fools if they proved themselves to be literal fools? Yet, as she considered it, Circe supposed it was right that she knew nothing of her fake foe. It simulated the unknown of a battle nicely; it shouldn’t be expected of the shadowmere to anticipate the live and loves of a strange opponent. She should expect the unexpected—it would save her life.
“Alright,” she breathed, lifting her head back to its customary height, warily and imperiously surveying the valley with those steely eyes of hers. “I’m ready, Locket. Your move.”
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[ W/C: 452
600 Word Limit
Friendly Spar
3 attack posts with 1 closing defense
No companions or Magic
Surroundings: In the valley of two hills much like the Foothills, high noon, slight breeze with few gusts.
Locket is welcome to make the first move <3]
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The Art of Execution [Locket]
