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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.


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[ 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