[AW] target practise

[Damascus]

Damascus with the little i know

"Warrior of dusks be myself Dov!" the child bleated as he plunged toward the cliffs, sail-like wings and his rudder of a tail the only thing keeping him afloat in the clouds. Upon his person was a great deal of 'armor', or rather a collection of fallen roof tiles from one of the Dusk Court towers strung together with meticulously peeled and preppared strips of waxy cyprus bark.  'Yap!' the bonded had replied telepathically from his place between the colt's wings. The stone-like armor which seemingly weighed half a tonne was what Damascus had spent the bettwe half of a week since his birthday creating all in the name of his new rank. The young warrior (in training) was plunging toward the cliffs where lay an unsuspecting dummy made purely of collected branches and a piece of old furniture stolen form within the court itself, all arranged into an equine-shaped arrangement upon the cliffs edge where Damascus planned to ferociously strike it down to a rocky, watery demise. 'Go left-ish!' Dohv screeched, grabbing a fistful of feathers in preparation for a spine-snapping turn. (Damascus of course went right, and Dohv promptly told him to go to the other left.) "Good warriors are we being!" Damascus boomed, this time setting his sights directly upon the horse-shaped target. As with many things Damascus had planned from beginning to end, it did not go completely to plan. Driving his winged bodice upon the wind at full speed toward splintering, unforgiving cliffs had never been a good idea ('armour' or not) and despite the jerboa upon his shoulders shouting directions into his brain, there was little finesse in the swaying and swooping bird.  First came a frantic scurry of hooves as they clipped the top of the target, taking merely a chip out of the furniture and leaving Damascus to tumble over and over in the earth beneath. Dohv was sent half a mile into the forest, unlikely to be retrieved until he could hop out into the clearing - Not even saving Dohv was appropriate justification for Damascus to gather up his tail, plunge his wings into his sides and squirm through the tiny claustrophobic spaces forests always had.  With his hand-crated armor laying in pieces upon the ground either side of him, Damascus curled over into a sitting position, turning a hoof toward the shattered pieces with a sigh. "More practise I need..." he murmured with a glance to the dummy.

meverrnind

[Jude]

 

JUDE

Cute and tiny quote
try to make the text
match up at the ends
so it forms a nice box

Mittens had been the one to watch the descent of the young warrior. Jude lay sprawled out dozing, his tendrils of pink hair splayed out. The feline is curled up in a nest of soft hair before she can hear the noise a short distance away. Slowly her eyes open, disgruntled at the interruption of her nap. She watches the young colt flail and fail at his endeavors before standing up. She stretches out and briefly walks past Jude, flicking her tail across his nostrils to stir the young kirin. At first there is only a snort and a slight sneeze. Mittens reaches out with her tiny paws and kneads the flesh of his neck, liberally using her claws to send tiny shocks of pain through her companion. It’d be one particularly deep nail that’d finally wake him from his doze. Jude wakes with a start and jolts up right. Mittens nearly falls over as the kirin flails, hair and limbs flying in a flurry. 

That hurt he whines to the feline and can then make out a voice somewhere. More practice I need. Jude lifts his eyes to notice precisely why his companion had stirred him.

You missed the show, Mittens says with amusement, her tail twitching as she rises to stand on all fours. Jude nods slowly and then rises up to his feet, assuming he must already look foolish to the other stallion with his tousled hair and crooked flower crown. He briefly fixes the crown with his telekinesis and dances on his feet nervously, unsure of whether to approach or retreat. 

Image by Queerly | Code by Tribs

[Diarmuid]

Diarmuid had never spent much time among the winged knights of his birthplace.  They held high status, higher than a common-born soldier such as he even once elevated to knighthood.  They were specially trained and drilled.  A highly specialized, highly trained strike force that could move more swiftly than any of the King's other weapons.  Deadly and graceful.  He had watched them from afar for years.  In turn, he had studied tactics for defeating them from the ground, for anticipating how they would react.  

This young warrior was not perhaps a prime example of a winged warrior.

His cries had called the early rising warrior from his roaming, drawing him to the sea cliffs.  He stood some distance away from the target perched on the edge, watching the... whatever it was.  Humor quirked his lips, smile made crooked by scars.  His head turned slightly so he could track the youth's progress with his good eye.  From his vantage it seemed like the dark colt might make his strike.  His muscles tense, straining as though he too pulls for the success of the dive if only because so much effort seems to have been put into it.  

The scarred grey winces in sympathy as the strike missed, skimming just the top of the target and sending the boy tumbling.  Heavy black hooves pick up a quick trot, at first concerned that he may be hurt.  But by the time Diarmuid reaches him he is already moving, picking himself up.  He slows and stops a short distance away, lowering his head to nudge one of the broken roof tiles.  He shakes his head.  

"Slow first, to make sure of your strike.  Once you learn to strike accurately, then you learn to strike fast."  He lifts his head, voice gentle with humor.  "Are you alright?"  

He doesn't notice the pink kirin also nearby- the wind carries the scent away from him, and his blind eye is turned towards him, milky white and unseeing.

@Damascus @Jude