The sun bore its bright rays down on the pair as they danced around each other, encouraged by the shouts from an wondering crowd. They had come for a thrill, and a thrill was what they were giving them. At least if he lost, he would have put on a show. (It wasn't much comfort to the stallion, but it was something).
When he lands his well-timed and brutish attack, he feels the rush of adrenaline return, and his heart recovers from the crack it had felt when his attack had been dodged. He sees it in her eyes, she's shocked that she wasn't prepared for the way he'd hurtled his horns at her, and when the antlers meet her chest, he prepares himself for the next attack.
It comes sooner than he expected, and he feels something, once again on her neck. It takes him only a second to realise that its her teeth, and he lets out another grunt of pain, trying to pull away from her -- it seems to only make the situation worse, and he considers the best tactic, trying to ignore the searing heat raging through his neck.
Instead, he uses his body against her, for he is like a tank in size. Whilst she is vulnerable, her chest exposed, he pulls his head downwards instead of away, and slightly to the left of her. With his right shoulder, he rams into her, attempting to wind her so he can catch his own breath, at the same time attempting to nip at her flank as he did so.
He could feel victory slipping from him, and this was his last attempt hurrah.
A failure from the Nemain would surely make its way back to her people quickly. Her sister would be the first to question her abilities, to question whether or not she was fit to be one of thee Morrigna. The Macha would be quick to defend her, though she would turn her criticizing gaze on her with fervor. Saying silently, do better, be better. If she could not win against one Solterran soldier, how was she to defend Solis' waters.
But in a moment she feels her teeth collide with the nape of his neck, tangles of mane flying into her mouth. Determination flood into amethyst eyes. Quickly extinguished by the heavy blow to her shoulder. Saoirse stumbles to the side, scrambling for a moment to get her feet under her as his weight nearly knocks her over. As she tries to recover she feels teeth briefly strike her flank, just barely missing the skin draped over her back, and she lets out a sharp curse. Though his intention may not be to damage such a token, it is not knowledge she holds. A fire took over her eyes as she spun around, sending up a cloud of dust behind her. She glanced at the time, each paper being flipped up by the second by some lowly page. 10 seconds. This was her shot, her one chance before the bell tolled once more to stop them.
She has no chance in slamming him. He is a creature of strength, and while muscles rip through her pelt, she is a creature of speed of agility. She darts around behind him, and spins so that she faces away, and kicks out sharply, holding her breath with hope that she may strike just above his hocks, hoping to strike him just the right way to knock a leg out from under him. As she does, she cna see the page picking up the bell, holding it ready to chime.
ralli's notes: CONGRATULATIONS to both Galileo & Saoirse for completing the first Solonia tournament! It was so fun to run this for you guys, and Galileo & Saoirse were both excellent fighters with unique, realistic attacks and reactions. I will be posting a quick Adonai reply where he crowns the winner after this.
@Galileo (@Karma) please claim your IC item reward, the Solonia wreath, in this thread! And as for both of you, after watching this amazing battle unfold I decided to add an additional signos "pot" reward for all parties who successfully complete a thread. This has already been added to the prizes thread!
hey are each capable fighters. That much is apparent the moment the iron cages rumble open high enough for Galileo, then Saoirse, to step onto the waiting sands.
The roar is instantaneous. A held breath, before the absence of all silence. Crack! The baying howl of a golden horn. Snap! The answering cry of an arbiter’s proud red flag. The start of a battle begs you this question: have you ever known it well, the sound of silence?
From the king’s box I lean forwards, my neck scraping the low wooden wall, my heart leapt into the hollow of my throat.
It is the first Solonia round in fifty years, and the crowds are ravenous for the first spill of scarlet blood.
It is not long before their lust is aptly satisfied. Saoirse, a streak of fire-red, slices a hoof cleanly across Galileo’s neck, the stallion reeling back before the strike can sink below the skin. From then, eyes rubbed raw by the first shock of pain, (Solterra rubbed into their hides), they are evenly matched. I watch with hooded eyes, imagining myself down in those sands, each fighter’s strides kept in time with a rhythmic tap of my hoof. They would tower over me.
A smile breaks across my face. I would not be a king, down there.
By the time the winner is announced, I have rubbed the leaves of the Solonia wreath to a shine with an idle wing. Somewhere an arbiter nods up to me; grasping the wreath by the teeth, my wings flick out, two sails, as I leap out of the box to the sands.
“Galileo.” I remain hovering a foot off the ground, as the bay stallion is so tall I would not be able to reach his head if I landed. And victors do not bow to kings after the heat of a battle. They are honored figures. “Solterra honors you. If you have not thought of yourself as one of us before this battle, then I hope there is no more doubt in you now.” The wreath is a bright gleam in his oaken hair.
“And Saoirse,” I say, shifting over to the violet-eyed mare, “The Roanne have produced an intimidating fighter. If you ever wish to seek a position in our ranks, know you will have a king’s favor.” I pause, clearing my throat, breaking finally into a starling’s grin. My hooves skim down to arena sand.
It is with one final effort, one final push that he wins the Solonia -- and he is surprised to do so.
She stumbles, as he so hoped, and his trunk-like legs are firmly rooted into the ground when he finishes forcing her backwards. The mare is quicker than he, and so he is pleased that he managed to counter her attack. On the other hand, he can feel the blood dripping down the back of his thick neck, and it aches with the fear of losing.
Shocked at her reaction to his attempt to force her back, he finds himself engulfed in her rage of fire and smoke. It immerses her and he sees nothing in her eyes except the desire to see him maimed (or perhaps worse). If there was a god watching over these lands, he prayed to it.
She burns so bright he sees her coming.
Whilst she lashes out at him with those oh-so-sharp hooves, he rears upwards and rotates on his heels. He lands heavily, but safely. Galileo quickly backs up so she can't throw another attack so soon.
The sound of the bells signals him to stop, to ceasefire, to hold himself steady. And that is what he needs, as his breath is short and laborious, a sign that he is not the young warrior he once was. He is confused, but only for a moment, as he accidentally meets the omniscient eye of the sun-kissed king.
So this was he.
Adonai.
Though much smaller than his own statuesque figure, the king has an awe-inspiring presence about him that requires all eyes on him. The crowd is hushed into silence by his very movement, a simple, sweeping jump from his perch.
Galileo has been in this situation many a time, and knows the proper etiquette. Standing next to his foe, who he knows he must congratulate on fighting so well, he tucks his forelegs beneath him as he attempts to lower into a bow. But the king is too quick, and stops him from doing so, and he is appreciative of such a kindness.
"Thank you, sun-kissed king." He speaks the name he had christened Adonai in his head by mistake, and the words lie stale in the air for the moment. He hopes that he has not caused offence, for he does not mean any (perhaps once it had been a sarcastic term, but not now) -- simply that this was a stallion who commanded attention, and glowed with a brightness that could only mean that he was blessed.
The wreath rests light upon his head. He had been restored, a victor in battle once more. It feels good, he cannot deny it, and he basks in the glory, as any man would do.
![[Image: ddjamb1-122f9879-334b-49d3-9bc8-46d9c2fb...TM43jI0AC0]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/976c7a49-1931-4cb7-a8f2-7f2f0babf2a7/ddjamb1-122f9879-334b-49d3-9bc8-46d9c2fb1b18.gif?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvOTc2YzdhNDktMTkzMS00Y2I3LWE4ZjItN2YyZjBiYWJmMmE3XC9kZGphbWIxLTEyMmY5ODc5LTMzNGItNDlkMy05YmM4LTQ2ZDljMmZiMWIxOC5naWYifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.7WunW61zJYHTvK2AFA21ZN1a1QKTYkgXXTM43jI0AC0)
