⚔  in these silences, something may rise  ⚔

The quiet still of the rising sun drug lazily across the sky, the bright colors beating the clouds into a orange-tinted red. And just as lazily as the sun, the large stallion trekked his way across the hole-pocketed dirt of the battlefield, the soil compacted over time by vicious hooves, bodily fluids, and now his own hefty weight.

Crimson eyes glanced down to the war-torn soil, one hoof perched precariously on the edge of a long-abandoned gopher hole... and while at first he was concerned that this place was less than fit for him to use as any sort of battle ground, he found himself chuckling. It just so happened that his hooves were even larger than the gopher holes themselves, eliminating a good majority of his own risk - but still not quite guaranteeing his safety.

Messily braided tail smacked impatiently at his hocks, and his eyes peeled up away from the soil and its imperfections. Instead, he proceeded forward - towards the center of the makeshift arena. It was oddly quiet, but Tor was not stupid; he knew there was someone always lurking along the edges, tucked away with in the forest as they waited for their opportunity to strike. He was not at all scared of that idea.

Ombre ears slipped back to rest flat against the crown of his horns as he peered about the arena. He knew he smelled someone familiar.

"Come out, feathers," came the low rumble, eyes scanning the tree-line, just looking for any sign of the white stallion. "You're not as quiet as you like to think you are," came the rolling chuckle, hearty and deep within his throat.

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Action. Thoughts. "Speech."

↤ Reference Image - - chest cavity: TIGHTLY CLOSED - - 275 words - - code Ⓒ inkbone ↦

Like an addict drawn to his substance did he venture to the Steppe, an age-old hum settling into his bones. Body was blotted and smudged with dirt from the ground he’d been sleeping on, a crude camouflage as he weaved and bobbed through the trees. With every step he took, his heart beat faster: it was drumming loudly inside of his chest, lub-dub, lub-dubbing against his ribcage and forcing blood throughout his arteries by every pulse.

It had been so long since he’d engaged in a proper fight.

A thing he had once depended on for survival was now stale, molded over and bitter from misuse. He’d kept away from the sparring ring for so long, he wondered now—would bruised bones and bloodied knees feel the same today as they had then? He liked to think his body was still fit, but to say he'd kept up with his training would be a lie. He’d found other things (namely, another person) to fill his time with, quite literally choosing love over hate.

But in love’s absence, he was quickly beginning to revert to his old self. And what better person to take such frustrations out on than the plum-speckled monster from Solterra?

’You’re not as quiet as you like to think you are.’ Irritation pulled his sooty lips downwards, a scowl even deeper than was per usual. He did not hesitate to yield to the behemoth’s call, crawling out from the forest with his body dragging low to the ground, ears bolted against his skull. “I should have known street fighting would be your pastime,” Aion drawled. His eyes were filled with an anticipation and hunger not so different from that of a starving coyote as he looked over his opponent.

“Maybe we have more in common than I first thought.”

He was weaving around him now, mere meters away, miniature in comparison but doing his damnedest to work that to his advantage. What he lacked in size, he hoped would be made up for with speed—he’d have to, in order to keep clear of those massive, cracked hooves. Aion eyed them warily, slow to move his gaze back up Torstein's. “Although I can’t quite imagine a brute like you having much skill in the ring-”

He gave into his instincts before the sentence had finished, tone rising into a sneer as he lunged for skin. His momentum, whether he hit true or not, should carry him around Torstein’s other side: a passing strike he could only hope to land.

Hooves dug into the ground, throwing up sod without a care in the world for the treachery a single misstep could bring, for his focus had narrowed onto the purple blots staining those colossal hocks. His bloodlust was strong, nearly overriding those years of training that screamed at him, watch for the kick! For when all that mattered was the blood he wished to taste on his tongue, the flesh he sought to tear from bone—he wouldn't, couldn't afford to miss.

One way or another, he was determined to bring Torstein down.




text. talk.

⚔  in these silences, something may rise  ⚔

The giant's gaze immediately caught onto his opponent as he slinked out of the tree line. One ear flicked lazily up, a smirk tugging at the edge of his own lips (his smugness was irritating, that's for sure), a hearty chuckle bubbling from his throat. "So slinks the snake," he purred at his opponent, braided tail whipping at his hocks. Weight was shifted from side to side as adrenaline rushed through his veins and hooves pawed at the ground in anticipation.

Crimson eyes followed the stallion as he slunk around; his body slowly turning as he circled. Never directly facing him, though, he was following pointedly after Aion: speckled rump facing him as they both eyed the other up as prey. Ombre ears slipped back against his crown, eyes narrowing as he followed after the blue, black, and white feathered creature... warm breath rolling from his nostrils into the chilly air as it rose into a haze of mist.

"Maybe we do," he murmured, feeling his gut knot as Aion eyed his own hooves and hocks. A sneaking suspicion told him he knew what was about to come... and the smaller stallion did not disappoint.

Like a lightning crack, Aion seemed to bolt forward and his teeth tried to make perch on his hock. And find a good hold they did, the other's teeth wrapping around his left hock with the apparent intention of yanking Tor's feet out from underneath him. An angered grunt ripped from his throat, his massive neck jerking up and backwards.. but this would not be his undoing. He expected it, in some fashion, and as soon as Aion's teeth graced his flesh, Tor tightened the leg's muscles and abruptly yanked it forward.

With the yank, he felt blood dribble down the back of his leg: warm and oozing, the smell of copper bit the air with it's distinct aroma. Aion may have drew first blood, but it was Tor's intention to make him eat dirt as retribution. And that would be his undoing: because if he toppled forward and stumbled, he would come face to face with the bottom of Tor's massive, weathered hooves. For just as he had yanked his left leg forward to make Aion stumble, it would kick right back out - aimed directly at the stallion's pretty feathered crown.

Haunches coiled, tightened, and bolted the massive plum stallion forward regardless of if the impact struck home.  He circled around, turning to face the other as he impatiently shifted his weight on his back legs. The bite Aion had administered had been fierce: it cut into the back of his hock, whose cream shade was now stained a bloody red. Tor could feel the uncomfortable sting and pressure of the wound whenever he shifted all of his weight to his left. 

Ears were pinned tightly to his crown of horns as he slowly paced around the stallion, eyes trained on him as his attention was fully focused. Silly banter was the farthest thing from his mind at this moment; instead, he kept a fairly wide birth around the other stallion as he circled, wholly expecting the bitter stallion's rage and frustration to bubble and overflow.

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Action. Thoughts. "Speech."

↤ Reference Image - - chest cavity: TIGHTLY CLOSED - - 275 words - - code Ⓒ inkbone ↦

Exhilaration flooded through his veins as his teeth sank into flesh. Every synapse burned and fired at once, clearing the clutter from his mind and narrowing his focus onto the the purple hock he held, tightening his jaw as hair and blood filled his open mouth. The muscles against his temple flexed, teeth flashing pearly white against his own black muzzle and Torstein’s plum skin—but they were already beginning to slide, losing purchase as the leg was pulled cleanly away. Aion nearly whined as it was; like a dog whose favorite bone had been unfairly taken away, keening in hopes that it would be returned.

But this was a bone he wouldn’t want back.

There was no time to think, only react: as Torstein pulled his leg away Aion let him, his body still hurtling through space past his hind end. But Torstein moved fast as well, faster than Aion had expected: the hoof came striking back at him in the blink of an eye, and he couldn’t quite move fast enough, twisting his body gruesomely in his attempt to avoid the kick. Despite his mid-air efforts the cracked, weathered hoof catches just behind his elbow, forcing the air from his lungs in a whoosh and lifting that corresponding limb high. 

Pain blossoms through his belly, panic settling in for just a moment as he struggles to catch both his breath and his balance.  His momentum comes to a stop, a cough racking painfully through his ribs as he wheezes and stumbles, stars dotting the corners of his vision. He’s suspended in time, struggling to force his lungs to relax and work, but seconds drag slowly by as he recovers and only dust fills his mouth. Even if he had the ability to speak—difficult to do while his lungs spasm and ache, desperately trying to bring air back into them—he would not stoop to such levels. The time for talk was over, it was time to fight. A silent snarl drags his lips up, ears pinned and lost in the crown of feathers atop his poll.

By the time Torstein turns to face him again,  he’s recovered enough to follow those stalking movements. His blue eyes narrow, recognizing his opponent’s movements as a crude mimicry of the beginning of their confrontation—only now Aion is found at the center, a cornered wolf ready to snap. His tail lashes out behind him, hackles raised; deliberately he draws first one hoof and then the next across the ground in a display of impatience. He doesn’t have time to wait for Torstein to attack; the anticipation kills him, and he tracks the three-eyed demon’s movements with his head dropped low, a canid growl rolling through his throat. 



Like an arrow loosed from a bow he’s off once again, facing the Day Court Warden head on with teeth bared in another blind leap. Aion doesn’t double check his attack, he just goes, ready to taste blood a second time. Despite their differences in height, he aims himself this time for the throat—and if his hooves need to pummel the pretty white chest as a stepping stool for purchase, so be it. Although he isn’t intentionally aiming to kill, he’s sure the area is still sensitive—even with those monstrous spines protecting it.


text. talk.

⚔  in these silences, something may rise  ⚔

Satisfaction flooded his gut as he felt a heavy hoof connect with ribs.. whether or not they were broken or fractured, Tor might never find out. But that wasn't what mattered; all that did was watching Aion gasp and heave. It boiled his blood in all the best ways, set his nerves on fire.. pulled the corners of his lips into a smirk. A forceful burst of hot air blew through his nostrils as his eyes locked with the cornered, feathered wolf - the snort a challenge, if nothing else. 

As Aion pawed the ground impatiently, one of Tor's ombre ears twitched forward curiously. His muscles tightened, haunches dropped a minute degree, and Tor's head snaked closer to the ground, dark ears lost in his mess of a white mane. He was saddened, because even with the short time he knew the stallion, he had expected him to be more calculating... to think things through, and not blindly rush forward like a bull in a china shop.

And just like a bull would do, the black and white stallion charged forward balls to the wall... which no longer surprised Tor. He may have gotten him the first time, but not this round. Haunches perfectly ready, as soon as Aion lunged at him, Tor pushed off the ground as well - towards him, but ever so slightly to the right. The smaller stallion's teeth would find perch in nothing more than air, and initially it would seem as if the massive Warden was merely trying to dart past the smaller Deluminian..

Oh, far from it.

Tor had aligned himself just enough, angled his push off just so minutely to the right that their shoulders would be less than 6 inches apart. And as he launched forward, his head dropped, chin tucked to his chest and head angled just the right way that his crown of horns would stick up and to the left... aiming right for Aion' s side.

Those massive, razor sharp horns would not seek to puncture, but rather slice along Aion's left side. Their edges and tips angled to a point just like the edge of a blade, and Tor would be damned if the hard keratin of his horns did not taste blood once more.

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Action. Thoughts. "Speech."

↤ Reference Image - - chest cavity: TIGHTLY CLOSED - - 275 words - - code Ⓒ inkbone ↦

As his momentum carries him forward, hard hooves digging into the ground and flinging sod in his wake, he sees the behemoth across the makeshift arena do the same. Their bodies hurtle towards each other in space and time, every step bringing the inevitable clash closer. Aion prepares himself for it, anticipating the teeth and hooves he knows will fly out at him, trying to batter him away, force him back to the ground. He won’t let it happen: he already can taste the blood from Tor’s hock, and he is determined to taste blood again.

But something is off.

There is no satisfying collision of bodies, no impact between the beast and the hound. Their trajectory is set to carry them straight past each other, a hairsbreadth of separation, and it is too late now to change course. Aion can hardly help the frustration that floods his veins as the purple-splashed stallion dodges him, refusing to meet him head-on in the traditional battle fashion. His hackles raise and shudder, teeth gnashing together in anger.

Aion is determined to not let him get away so easily. He acts purely on instinct as his hindquarters lower to the ground, hooves planting and digging to halt his forward trajectory. Every muscle strains, his injured side still screaming in protest as he forces himself to stop.

It’s only as he slows and rethinks his strategy that he realizes Torstein’s intent, catching sight of that great rack of horns angling to meet him head on.

he flings his own head sideways, away from the incoming collision. His body follows suit, lifting off the ground to dart out of the way. As his legs gather beneath him, now perpendicular to his opponent’s onslaught, he feels the grazing bite across his croup. The longest of Torstein’s horns grazes the top of his hindquarters, rolling across the curvature of his hips and leaving a short trail of red in its wake. It burns and itches, Aion’s skin crawling around the scrape—but it could have been far worse.

Once the two stallions are clear of one another, Aion spins back around to face the draft in anger, eyes flashing. The anger within them stood out vibrantly against his dark face, and now that he has a chance to breathe once more does he realize just how alive the emotion makes him feel.

“Trying to skewer me, Tor?” he snaps, sulking around the side of their dirt arena, maintaining a healthy distance. He limps slightly on his left foreleg, for that is where Torstein kick landed and placing his weight upon it strains the muscles of his side. “I’m afraid it will take more than that to best me.”


text. talk.

⚔  in these silences, something may rise  ⚔

His heart thrummed in his chest, he could feel the blood coursing under his skin, he could feel his stomach knotting in anticipation. Beautiful, bloody butterflies... but in an instant, Tor knew something was off. Teeth ground angrily as he saw Aion's hooves skid in the dirt, knowing full well the stallion was attempting to halt his momentum in a moment of - panic, maybe? But whatever caused the other to avoid him, disappointment brewed in his belly, turning the butterflies to mush.

But all was not lost.

He felt the pressure on the tips of the longest tines, but it was instantaneous and fleeting - gone within moments as Aion darted away. And as soon as he knew the other had evaded his deadly reach, his own hooves dug into the ground as he skidded to a halt and jerked his head upwards. Dirt flew at his hooves, nostrils flared and chest heaving with exertion. Sweat slicked his hide, made the dirt and dust cling to him.

An angry snort ripped from his nostrils, ears pinned back in his sweaty mess of a mane as he stamped a front hoof, eyes seeking out the retreating stallion. One hoof raised high, pawed the air before him in frustration, and then stamped down into the mud at his feet - creating a valley as he pawed it back towards himself. A challenge, if anything - while he jerked his head upwards, muzzle pointed up, staring down his nose at Aion. 

"Guess that means I'll just have to skewer you another time," he rumbled. The adrenaline ebbed away, leading way to the throbbing in his back leg.. which now sat cocked, only the tip of his hoof resting against the dirt. "Sorry that it wouldn't be the way you prefer it, feathers," he mocked, chuckling. While Tor had barely met the featherbutt but a few weeks prior... there was a spitfight, a fight, in him that Tor admired quietly. He was almost certain the other stallion despised him, though.

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Action. Thoughts. "Speech."

↤ Reference Image - - chest cavity: TIGHTLY CLOSED - - code Ⓒ inkbone ↦

The laugh bubbled up inside of his chest, boisterous and unexpected. He tossed his head back high and let the laughter roll out of him. Now that the threat of an attack was gone and the stress had been worked—temporarily—out of his system, it left him feeling good. One could dare to say Aion was even happy, for the time being—there was only one person who could have made this moment better.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, Warden,” he teased, flicking his long tail behind him. “I’ve seen straighter men than you learn something from it.” With that he lifted his legs into a fast-paced trot that carried him out of the Steppe, content to find a shallow stream to nurse his wounds in.


text. talk.