WANTING IT
CARVING IT DOWN
TO VISION.
a coliseum of bent light
CARVING IT DOWN
TO VISION.
In the right light, the desert looks powder blue, like a landscape of icy hills stretching far back to a baby pink sky. The sun, the symbol of the Court, is a relentless, pale-white sphere of an eye, looming judgement across all mortal flesh. The air is heavy with the stench of celebration, of dust and sand, of spice, of piss and the bitter bile of vomit. The fingers of a breeze, started somewhere off in the far distance, rustling the short-clipped black strands of her hair. Warbird lifts her chin, face to the sun, eyes falling shut. Her warrior’s preparation, a calmness in her blood in sharp opposition to the chaos around her.
She prefers to stand on a balcony and center her breathing while the attendants rush around within. The coliseum is being prepared for a new battle, as sand is raked over the old blood, spent arrows are gathered from where they lay on the ground, and the garbage tossed in by overstimulated watchers is put into bags and carted off. Reminiscent of a tea-kettle rising it’s way to boiling, the crowd is a rough sort of settled, impatient in their waiting, and ready for the next bout. And the one after that. And the one after that, and so on, and so on, until as such time mankind tires of blood, which will be the day the sun burns out of the sky.
Stykkislange is stretched out to her full length along the bannister, looking for all the world like some hyperrealistic decorum of painted marble. At Warbird’s behest, she would not be partaking in the Solonia round, though it took very little convincing on her Valkyr’s part. Stykki was a lazy beast who only liked to exert herself should she have some personal gain and having been repeatedly told she could not eat their opponent had dampened her spirits.
She was an eater, after all, not a fighter.
Following custom, Warbird was not allowed to view the sheet with the listed bouts and as such did not know who she was facing off against; she did not care. She was battle-tested and unbothered. The rules explicitly stated it was to be a friendly bout, spurred on by the flavor of healthy competition-- but all fights were fights, plain and simple, and every opponent deserved the brunt force of her.
but you are sssstill not going to wear your armor, Stykki questioned, her voice a wet hiss as she looked at the Valkyr from the corner of one viper-like eye.
“My armor was forged by Tyr and tempered in the blood of the Valkyr,” Warbird responded, turning towards the doorway, “it is a suit for war, not parties.” The snake did not deign to reply, so she added: “Do not eat anyone while I am gone, or I shall cut them from your stomach.”
A lingering attendant arrived just in time to hear the last part of that foreboding statement and Warbird could see the nausea on their face; with trembling hands they held up a blunted shortsword, most likely used for the training of armies; Warbird took up the sword and the attendant hastily scrambled back. After a few swings to test it’s heft and hold, Warbird found the thing to be a piece of junk-- fighting with such an implement would add to the challenge instead of leveling the playing field.
Resting the sword at her side, she climbs down a large staircase and takes her place behind the shadow of a large set of doors. Counting one, two, three beats before there is a loud thunk, the creeeaaaak of old hinges, and the mounting roar of the crowd; unbidden, she surges forward, crossing the threshold where stone turns to sand, and out into the blaring brightness of the day.
Warbird scoffs deep in her throat. She is not weary, in any sense of the word; instead, she is absolutely buzzing, echoing the chaotic dirge of the crowd. She faces off against her opponent, a beautiful, striking fae with golden pelt and oaken hair.
This woman, Apolonia, is curves and blue eyes and an air of false fragility, like a sharp shard of glass, glinting in the sun.
Luckily enough, Warbird is not one to underestimate an opponent. She gives a stiff bow, never taking her eyes off the sun-hued princess, and positions her sword in a cross-body, defensive stance, blade facing backwards and lifted slightly off her left shoulder.
"Speech." stykki speech | @Apolonia | an intwo post!! you can have first attack
She prefers to stand on a balcony and center her breathing while the attendants rush around within. The coliseum is being prepared for a new battle, as sand is raked over the old blood, spent arrows are gathered from where they lay on the ground, and the garbage tossed in by overstimulated watchers is put into bags and carted off. Reminiscent of a tea-kettle rising it’s way to boiling, the crowd is a rough sort of settled, impatient in their waiting, and ready for the next bout. And the one after that. And the one after that, and so on, and so on, until as such time mankind tires of blood, which will be the day the sun burns out of the sky.
Stykkislange is stretched out to her full length along the bannister, looking for all the world like some hyperrealistic decorum of painted marble. At Warbird’s behest, she would not be partaking in the Solonia round, though it took very little convincing on her Valkyr’s part. Stykki was a lazy beast who only liked to exert herself should she have some personal gain and having been repeatedly told she could not eat their opponent had dampened her spirits.
She was an eater, after all, not a fighter.
Following custom, Warbird was not allowed to view the sheet with the listed bouts and as such did not know who she was facing off against; she did not care. She was battle-tested and unbothered. The rules explicitly stated it was to be a friendly bout, spurred on by the flavor of healthy competition-- but all fights were fights, plain and simple, and every opponent deserved the brunt force of her.
but you are sssstill not going to wear your armor, Stykki questioned, her voice a wet hiss as she looked at the Valkyr from the corner of one viper-like eye.
“My armor was forged by Tyr and tempered in the blood of the Valkyr,” Warbird responded, turning towards the doorway, “it is a suit for war, not parties.” The snake did not deign to reply, so she added: “Do not eat anyone while I am gone, or I shall cut them from your stomach.”
A lingering attendant arrived just in time to hear the last part of that foreboding statement and Warbird could see the nausea on their face; with trembling hands they held up a blunted shortsword, most likely used for the training of armies; Warbird took up the sword and the attendant hastily scrambled back. After a few swings to test it’s heft and hold, Warbird found the thing to be a piece of junk-- fighting with such an implement would add to the challenge instead of leveling the playing field.
Resting the sword at her side, she climbs down a large staircase and takes her place behind the shadow of a large set of doors. Counting one, two, three beats before there is a loud thunk, the creeeaaaak of old hinges, and the mounting roar of the crowd; unbidden, she surges forward, crossing the threshold where stone turns to sand, and out into the blaring brightness of the day.
“And for our next match, the long-standing daughter of the Day Court, the dual-eyed Maiden, versus the world-weary newcomer, Apolonia of the Day Court versus the Warbird!”
Warbird scoffs deep in her throat. She is not weary, in any sense of the word; instead, she is absolutely buzzing, echoing the chaotic dirge of the crowd. She faces off against her opponent, a beautiful, striking fae with golden pelt and oaken hair.
This woman, Apolonia, is curves and blue eyes and an air of false fragility, like a sharp shard of glass, glinting in the sun.
Luckily enough, Warbird is not one to underestimate an opponent. She gives a stiff bow, never taking her eyes off the sun-hued princess, and positions her sword in a cross-body, defensive stance, blade facing backwards and lifted slightly off her left shoulder.
"Speech." stykki speech | @
