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The wind was biting; the air was chilly. The night would fall soon, heavy and dark, smoky and silent, melancholy in its shawl of stars. Circe watched her breath fog from her nose, seemingly transfixed by the simple motions made by the smoke of her breathing. Her eyes were frozen; her shoulders twitched; tremors ran the length of her barrel. For once that magnificent crown of a horn was lowered, bowed in respect or fear, she did not know. She was vacant now; the shadowmere was busy gathering her wits about her, letting the wrath of battle settle into her breast. There. Here it was; an icy pressure settling itself upon her heart. It was agonizing in its own way, titillating, making her flesh crawl and her skin unusually sensitive to the chill of the autumn evening.

Was Circe afraid? Mayhaps she was in a way, though surely it was not the fear of cowards with tails tucked between their legs in shame. This was an awareness, and anticipation of things. Her restlessness was evident, and though the sorceress was unsure of the source of her agitation, the agitation remained regardless. She must move herself; she must shift her weight; she must shake the idleness of her limbs from herself and hone her body, her mind, her soul for the purpose the Grey set upon her. Circe was an Executioner, and it was high time for an execution. She must sharpen her blade.

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 life and loves of a strange opponent. She should expect the unexpected—it would save her life.

He’s a legend, you know, whispered a betraying corner of Circe’s mind; she shivered, haunted by the idea. He was certainly notorious for his prowess, though the knowledge didn’t make Circe shirk away from her destination; she was resolute in her decision. It only invigorated her, and caused her sensitive skin to crawl ever so much more at the thought. She snorted heavily, stamping once, twice. She couldn’t wait any longer; the suspense was killing her. When one was ready for battle, impatience was a common feature; she must strike while her irons were hot. Taking a deep breath of the brittle, Orangemoon air, she bellowed out her challenge, and her voice did echo against the vaults and chambers of the Foot Hills valleys:

“ARCHIBALD!”

----

[ W/C: 480
800 Word Limit
Teaching Spar
3 attack posts with 1 closing defense
No companions or Magic
Surroundings: In a valley between two hills; terrain much like the foothills. Sundown, almost night time, rapidly fading light. No breeze, very chilly air, somewhat damp underfoot. ]

speaking

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And all at once, the air seemed to grow ever more frozen as the great baritone swept over Circe from behind.

*“I am here, executioner, why do you call so shrilly?”*

“So I know that you heard me,” she heard herself answering; turning her body so that she stood facing the darkly shrouded stallion with her head raised high in demeanor, the shadowmere let her gaze rise to his own golden stare. Her tail lashed once, twice; it was a testament to her agitated state, but it wasn’t directed towards the Dauntless. It was her own restlessness; she felt it was futile to in her own battle-rage. “I have no wager, General. I have a duty to the Grey as a weapon,” she stated bluntly, her husky voice teasing out of her throat and finding a way to float upon the brittle air, “and my edge has been dulled over idleness. This is unacceptable; I ask that you help me sharpen it, in a match between comrades?” Her eyes flicked down to the red malamute that hugged the general’s heels; her eyes were not unkind or scathing, though they examined the bitch with a critical eye, an instinctual gaging of the dog’s potential as an enemy—or an ally.

“I will stow my magic; I ask you do the same for yours,” she explained, as the Dauntless inquired for the boundaries of her supposed contest, “and I ask that your companion keep her own counsel for this bout between us. I wish to meet only you in this fight.” As the words left her mouth, the tiniest of gusts wracked the shadowmere’s side and an unearthly chill crawled and crept the length of her spine, willing the bitter air to catch in her lungs for the briefest span of moments. Circe’s ears pinned; what was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to be so affected by the coming night; never had the very breath of wind inspired such a sensuous response in her. This is good, said some corner of her mind; to fight while under strange influences is undoubtedly a hazard for her line of work. It is indeed good, she mused, agreeing with such a traitorous thought, but it’s still damn annoying.

Her eye caught the subtle movement of the heavy draft as he squared his stance; her head lowered on instinct, horn parallel to the dampened earth beneath her. This was her default; both offensive and defensive, her horn serving as both the stiletto of an assassin and the spire of a shield in combat. She stood thus, her breathing even, her muscles loosened; her eyes never left Archibald, and when it became clear that he waited on the shadowmere to execute the first move, Circe hesitated no longer. She sidestepped slowly, casually, to her right, taking only a few steps in a seemingly thoughtless shift of weight. Her sight didn’t leave the red malamute until the bitch was surely out of the way of their spar; the sorceress’s eyes then traveled to Archibald’s golden countenance, any trace of emotion driven from her visage. “Here,” was her hoarse, murmured warning to the Dauntless.

She broke out into a loose canter; her head never rose from its lowered position. She held it there, her muscles unstrained, a relaxed, natural position for her horn; she kept her muscles limber, yet poised in anticipation, sure that the Dauntless would shift his position—Circe would need to react accordingly. Though her gait was an easy loping grace, be sure that her feet indeed flew, and she sped upon Archibald at a considerable rate. As it was, the point of Circe’s horn aimed for the left juncture between his neck and his shoulder, aligning her sight just above the point of his left shoulder blade; if her attack followed through, it was sure be a dangerous, debilitating wound to have indeed.

Yet Circe was sure that the Dauntless would't allow her blow to land.


----

[ W/C: 648
1/3 PC
Summary: Aims with her horn on Archibald's left side, attempting to stab him in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.]

speaking

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As bitter and frozen as the thin air dared to be, Circe had never felt her joints and the edges of her neck so filled with intense inner heat before this moment. It was a stifling sensation that made her senses over-sharp; the sorceress was just as aware of the biting cold as she was of her own heat. Every tremor made by her hooves meeting ground wracked her limbs, sending vibrations all across her field of vision; as her horn pierced the hide of the Dauntless, she felt the impact within the base of her skull, shuddering the faint satisfaction that gleamed in her mind. All at once, however, those tiny impressions were dulled in comparison to the explosion of sensation that blossomed from the stallion’s bite; as his teeth closed somewhere just behind the apex of her poll, a starburst erupted behind Circe’s eyes, and she couldn’t help the grunt that accompanied the spike of pain. For it was pain in its simplest definition; there was no denying it. What alarmed the shadowmere was her reaction. Pain in battle was her drive to end it. It fueled her rage and her desire to destroy her adversary. With pain came a rambunctious bloodlust.

But Circe had never received pleasure from the stimulant.

Her thoughts were stifled as Archibald’s mass flew at her, his shoulder knocking her above her left elbow. The shadowmere’s first instinct was to dig her hooves into the ground beneath her to keep from being thrown by the Dauntless’s weight; with a jolt, Circe felt the dirt beneath her melt, seeping into her frogs and causing Circe to slide, briefly losing her footing. Snorting, Circe broke contact with Archibald, letting the force of his blow carry her away, her steps careful and calculated so that she would not lose balance; fighting his bulk was a useless endeavor, so she would flow with it. As Circe moved, her tail whipped hard to her right; she used the momentum to pivot her body, changing her position so that she stood perpendicular to Archibald’s left side.

Circe could not actually see the Dauntless at this point; though the sky still shone purple with the last vestiges of light, the hills proved to cloak the two brawlers in extensive shadows. There was a moon tonight, yet it chose to hide behind a cloud, abandoning them to a spar of night. The black of Archibald’s coat proved to blend with the darkness; the only visible parts of him were the broad blaze of his face and the feathers of his feet. Despite these, Circe didn’t rely on sight to detect him; his thick, heady scent, tinged with the metallic tang of his blood, proved to be her marker. She breathed deeply, willing to calm her body and keep the control of her battle-fury—but the Dauntless’s scent proved to do otherwise. A fire was erupting within her, a frightening flame that set the shadowmere ablaze. Breathing only served to fan the cinders.

With a grunt, Circe bolted for the Dauntless once again, closing the short distance between them. This time she minded the tender ground beneath her; while her legs pushed off with a spark of power, she made sure that she did not slip on the dewy grasses or that she hadn’t use too much energy in her approach. On the last leg of her short gallop, Circe rounded her back and straightened her forelegs, effectively ceasing her movement forward. She reared slightly, her forelegs only inches from the ground, straining her neck toward the Dauntless’s left wither, maw open and teeth flashing in the night. She intended to land a bite there; whether she was successful or not, Circe then landed her forehooves and fiercely lashed her tail to the right again. Her tail could potentially whip the Dauntless anywhere between his hocks and his dock, but that wasn’t her intention. The shadowmere merely wished to pivot her body once more so that, at the end of her maneuver, she would be parallel with him, her right side pressing and pushing against his left.

Somewhere within her wild fury, there was a method in her actions. Deeper still was the realization of the cause of her passion; Circe cursed herself for completely overlooking such an important part of her cycle. Circe knew proper battles didn’t fluxuate on a mare’s heat-cycle, so she would be able to justify her desire for a spar under that pretense—but Circe wasn’t pretentious. She now understood the ulterior motive behind her decision to spar with Archibald; in the depths of her mind a voice whispered, and Circe identified it as belonging to Ophelia: Tall, dark and handsome; he certainly fits the description for a mare's fantasy.

The bite marks behind Circe’s ears throbbed powerfully, and it was painful.

_________

[W/C: 800

PC: 2/3

Summary: Is bitten just behind her poll and knocked backwards by Archibald’s shove; backs up to avoid being thrown off balance, and pivots her body so that she’s facing his left side. Charges and attempts to bite his left wither. Pivots again and potentially lashes him anywhere between his left hock and his dock with her tail.]


speaking

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Thus, the shadowmere tasted the Dauntless, and she was met with a wall.

Just as the tang of his essence settled on her tongue, Circe felt the wind gush out of her body as she crashed against a rock-hard barricade of sinew and muscle; the shock of the impact forced Circe’s front hooves to briefly leave the ground, jolted as she was with the force of their blow. There was no foothold, no leeway in Archibald’s defenses—he was utterly indomitable. Rather than be discouraged by her failure to shake him, Circe felt a morbid satisfaction with the sheer toughness of his physique, excited by the dramatic contrast between their bodies. This was only intensified by the wayward sting she felt in her tail…so she had inadvertently struck him, had she? It was a directionless satisfaction, thoughtless amidst the fire of battle; now that he was so close, so near, Circe made to raise her head and neck upwards, positioned to plant even more harsh, fang-laced kisses upon his neck and back, meaning to wring every drop of pain out of him in their moments of close proximity.

Except Archibald beat her to the punch—and reared high above her head.

It was such an unexpected maneuver that Circe was legitimately stunned for a handful of heartbeats. What…sort of trick was this? It was such a sloppy, thoughtless move; as sturdy as his legs were, Circe was free to strike at his tender belly and the joints of his hock, potentially sending him careening to the ground, a fallen giant. It was not until he began to descend—the tips of his hooves scraping her spine briefly—that she understood his intention.

Oh.

OOH.

No.

She was not done with this contest…for it was a contest, no matter how thinly veiled their passions were. Circe was far too caught into her bloodlust to abandon their fight to the savageries of nature.

No matter how tempting.

The balance of the Dauntless’s weight above her was an extremely sensual experience, even though she gave an alarmed, screaming grunt from underneath him. He was swiftly descending; her back contorted, stretching as a feline’s might, her hooves slipping in the soft ground as she made to bolt from underneath him, body angled to the right. She was mostly successful; Circe had almost made it out of his grasp, but then the bulk of his chest fell onto her dock, forcing her loins to strain and her tail to lash weirdly in her endeavor to escape him. Even when properly away from his advances, Circe continued to bolt away for some lengths, her tail lashing haphazardly behind her in her fit of excitement. Finally, the shadowmere slowed her escape, coming to a stop and turning herself so that she now faced Archibald’s right side.

She was breathing much too heavily; her neck was arched with too much exaggeration. Circe could feel her straining poll where his bite had landed previously—she knew from bites of years past that this deep pain would follow her for a time, bruising her muscle, causing discomfort and trouble sleeping. No matter. She would find a way to cope with it.

“Archibald,” Circe spoke suddenly, surprised at her words; they didn’t sound like her. This voice was a warbled groan, a husky whisper, an admonishment and promise molded into his name. Her eyes were lidded coals, and her head lowered into that default of offense and defense. Her shoulders quivered slightly; the memory of his weight above her, thrumming the thin air, a tangible shadow that caused her nerves to spark and ignite suggestively, haunted her mind. She witnessed the animal look in those golden eyes of his….the pure unadulterated desire that sparked them. Circe briefly wondered how it would feel to have his basest wishes granted… No. They needed to finish this first. Then release.

“Show me something, Archibald,” she spoke again, her voice lower, deeper, a trail of smoky velvet in the night. It was not a taunt; it was an affirmation of her promise. Fight me first, General, and we will talk afterwards. The moon decided to peer passed the edge of a cloud at that moment, briefly illuminating their battlefield; the silver highlight of the Dauntless, the definition of his mass and his physical prowess, proved to tip Circe over the edge. Her tail was thrown upwards, backwards; it curled in the cradle of her back, and this was her guarantee.

The shadowmere charged once more, a faster, feverish gallop than before, and made to pierce her horn into the broad, muscled side of Archibald’s neck.

Show me something, Archibald.

----

[W/C: 785

P/C: 3/3

Summary: Angles to the right and slips out from underneath him; strains her neck, back, and loin muscles doing so. Retreats a ways, until she turns and faces his right side. Charges in a maneuver similar to her first, only now facing the right side of his neck. ]

speaking

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Circe was surely sailing through the night, carrying herself on the thinnest of air, the crispness of the darkness in no shape to stop the bulk of the shadowmere flying to meet the bulk of the Dauntless. Her passion, her battle-rage, her desire caused her legs to fly; there was no slowing her charge into the Dauntless, for the ground was too soft, the air was too weak, and she needed him much too severely.

And so, when the Dauntless shifted and prepared for her attack, intending to meet her and lock horns in response to her request, a spark of panic erupted in the pit of her breast. She could not stop herself without risking the snap of her shins; the ground would not help her make an agile escape from Archibald’s clutches. No, there was no escape from him, from the teeth that flashed and the bulk that rammed toward her; there was nothing to do but meet it, and the spark of panic morphed into something else entirely. Strange as it was, Circe felt it mold into a blossom of excitement, an anticipation of what would surely come. There would be pain.

Oh yes. Pain. Circe was not a masochist; when she met pain, she hated it and avoided it. But she wanted Archibald’s strength; she wanted him to attack her, show her why his name was the Dauntless and not the Mindless Rutting Bull. She wanted a fight—no matter how agitated, how antsy and raunchy she may have been in her thickest skin, the shadowmere truly wanted to fight him, test herself and him, do some damage and learn how to do more in the making. Sharpen her blade. Show me something. Well, he damn well showed her, did he not?

And he would bring pain.

His teeth grasped the skin of her cheek, and a tear was pulled from her eye; the sorceress felt the skin of her face pull and strain, and while his teeth had left in the moments following, she could feel her cheek broken and open to the cool air, stung by the frost that reached for her. Had there been time, Circe might have cried out from the pain of it—but then Archibald rammed into her once more, this time much more forceful, much more passionate than before. His chest slammed into her with the force of a great typhoon; Circe could feel the blow reverberate all through her body, a sharp and dull agony rolled all into one, echoing through every joint, radiating from the sunburst that was her chest. Oh, there will be a bruise, a huge, angry bruise on the entire right side of her chest—Circe halfway expected her shoulder to be dislocated. She was certainly vocal about it—her voice gasping out of her throat, not quite full enough to be a shout and packed with her shock, her suffering, and her satisfaction with is attack. Show me something.

However, Circe could not stop moving forward. Though the Dauntless’s attack was great, she had been moving too fast to stop her forward movement with such a sudden obstacle; as such, Circe shoved passed Archibald, her shoulder not dislocated after all but still sending jolts of dull, creeping pain with every fall of her hoof. More tears fell from her right eye, travelling to the place on her cheek that throbbed the loudest with hurt. She continued to travel past the Dauntless, her gait slowing ever so gradually, her feet finding a way to navigate through the dew-laden ground without risk of falling to her defeat. And then, suddenly, she was stopped. Standing stock still, her neck arched with rigid exaggeration, the shadowmere only panted into the dark night, her breath coming out in a silken, silvery fog.

Her tail thrown upwards and backwards, curled into the curve of her back.

Circe’s mind was gone now. She had gotten from Archibald what she so desperately wanted—he had certainly shown her something worthwhile. She was satisfied with their fight. And now she craved a different type of satisfaction from him.

The last conscious thought the shadowmere had been that all the children were supposed to have been in bed by now. And that, if some adult or warrior happened upon them at this late, intimate hour—well, then.

They would understand the urgency of these important matters.


----

[ W/C: 721

P/C: 3/3, 1/1

Summary: Is moving too fast to avoid Archibald's bite and shove, and receives both. Shoves past him, slows down and stops. Clearly wants the D. ]

speaking