Parties embodied the things he hated most about his fellow equines. The frivolous frills of the decorations that lined the excessively large halls, the masks everyone hid behind (both figuratively and literally), and the cajoling of kings and queens. It was disgusting, that's what it was. Maybe once he would have tolerated it all, but now, he looked straight through it like a sheet of glass.
When he had seen the invite to attend this so-called festival, he had cast the invitation and party out of his mind with a bellowing laugh. Gone were the days where he would bow to those who had not earned the right to be bowed to. And so that was that, his mind was made up, his legs returned him home to his beloved, protective canyons. But there was something, something he couldn't quite shake. Something about who he was in his very soul that murmured in his ears.
Adonai. Adonai. Adonai.
The name resounded in his head, agonizingly so. The longing to serve once again never left a warrior, no -- it coursed in their blood till the day they took their very last breath.
He had paced, backwards and forwards, running over the decision in his head. Fighting was all he had, all he had ever had. But it had been so long... would he be fierce enough? Or would they laugh at him shouting old man! You are too old for these silly tricks!
With a low rumble, more for his own acknowledgement then that of Adonai, he spoke to the sun. "Alright, king. I shall be your champion."
And so he had left, trekking to the Solterran city in search of this party.
The hustle and bustle of the city was unforgiving to the claustrophobic stallion, and he found himself constantly on edge as he tried to move through the crowds. Such a celebration he had seen many times in his life, as royals had come and gone like the ebb and flow of the tide. They were always so... disposable. He longed to see a ruler who belonged to the throne, whose place was at the top of the food chain. Syrilth of course came to mind. A queen of true warrior disposition, and someone who had had Galileo's respect for every day since.
A wooden sign pointed him in the right direction, and he found himself among knights of all shapes and sizes. It was strange to be among his own again, and he shifted awkwardly from one hoof to another at the fringe of the mob. Awaiting his turn to enter the ring, Galileo prepared himself like he always did before any battle -- by shutting himself off from the world.
Galileo may enter the ring!
The herald announced his coming, and the world went silent around him. Tunnel vision to the entrance allowed him to focus on only the task in hand: to win, and prove himself to this sun-kissed king.
The woman of the seas, the Roanne, took the phrase survival of the fittest at its most literal. In biology fitness refers to somethings ability to reproduce, but the Roanne took it in it's common form. Each one bred to withstand the trials of Solterra's high seas, facing outcast if they failed. Even the lowest houses among them could fight well enough to defend themselves. The Nemain and the Badb took that role most seriously, liopards, raised for battle, trained to fight. Saoirse was no exception.
News of Solterras festival travelled to the Roanne quickly, but no event was more appetizing then the battles of Solonia, an event where they could prove their worth, and perhaps, with a new king on the throne, gain some favor among the court. She was the first to slither out of their waters and shed her pelt, stringing it around her neck as a token of her heritage. It offered no protection in battle, but it would not be undone. No true Roanne would dare leave such a thing unguarded in land, nor sea.
She waited among the others, sizing up each competitor, violet eyes working over each and everyone, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Her ears twitched as they called in one Galileo, and she watched a man whos height rivalled her own lumber through the arch into the ring.
"And may Saoirse follow" they butchered her name as did many landwalkers, mashing the letters together clumsily. She waltzed out, glancing briefly at the crowds who had gathered to watch each round. A strong opponent to start, clearly a seasoned soldier himself. She narrowed her eyes, and waited.
The bell chimed
And she was off, without missing a beat, she charged towards the center, ready for the spar to begin.
not the first attempt at a hit. just her getting ready.
It was only seconds later that he was joined in the ring by a woman painted in amber-fire and cream-candle wax.
The throngs who looked upon the pair would see Galileo, but he would not see them. There was focus in his golden eyes, pointed like daggers at their target. It was finally time to fight once again.
He allowed himself a playful attempt towards her, darting her way but retreating in the same heartbeat, not yet looking to land any hits. The adrenaline kicked had already kicked into play, but was heightened by his circling of her, waiting to see how she would react to his challenge. Veins lining his shoulders stood sentinel as the sun beat down upon his dappled back.
Upon the challenger sat some sort of animal skin, and Galileo considered that perhaps it was some sort of lucky charm. A lesser man may have tried to rip it from Saoirse (he'd heard her name from the herald), but he had honour, and would not need to stoop so low to win this battle.
When they had grown used to each other and felt one another out, it was time to try and land a hit. Spinning on his heels, he decides to use what he knows has worked in the past -- his unbridled strength. With an almost carefree glance over his shoulder, he lashes out with his hind legs, a forceful buck heading towards her shoulders. Age has not tamed the brutal force he can put behind such an attack, but it does make him grunt from the exertion.
-
@Adonai @Saoirse
galileo's first attempt at an attack c;
Rusted copper, and ivory stripes danced around her like a well oiled machine. They both took their time, sizing up the competition, watching each others movements ebb and flow around the other. Galileo, her opponent, darted in with no real intent, and though her muscles twitched in response, they loosened again as soon as he back away once more. This, this was the thrill of battle that the rough edged lady lived for.
While some in the sea let themselves be smoothed out, those who wore the pelt of the Liopard let the waves cut sharp edges into them, eroding away and part that may have been soft in the past. She watched his amber eyes linger for a moment on her skin, and her own narrowed sharply. Distracted for a moment she nearly missed the cues to his strike.
He came at her the way a Fainne would, all brute strength and forward movement. The Ribin and the Liopardi were more like the waters in their motions. Pushing and pulling like the tides. Quickly she danced away from his blow, one that surely would have taken out one of her legs. She knew she'd have to watch any blows that came from his hooves, large as they were.
She pushed forward, curling around to his side as his feet landed back on the ground. She reared up, striking out with one hoof towards his neck, hoping to his hit him with her toe rather then the sole. A smile crosses her face as she does, she lives for the thrill of battle.
His attack, so perfectly timed and calculated, misses.
Slightly shocked, he finds himself tumbling forward as she dodges out of the way, tripping over his own hooves. He could not deny, that it sucked the confidence out from underneath him, and for a moment his eyes were wild with fear. Was this what it was going to be like now? Was he too old to do the only thing he'd ever known?
He takes a moment to compose himself, but a second is all he has, for suddenly, she is coming at him again. He tries to move out the way, but he's too slow, too heavy on his hooves. He feels the force before he feels the pain, the sharp edge of her hoof coming into contact with his neck. It slices him, drawing blood, the bright red staining his coat. But he tries to ignore it.
Instead, he reels around again, this time using his very own weapons. His impressive rack of antlers bows towards her chest, and he attempts a charge, hurtling towards her at some speed.
A wicked smile crosses the Roanne's face as her hoof strikes the mans neck, as blood spills from the shallow gash. It was the rush of battle that kept a Nemain going, that kept them pushing through the exhaustion, the burning of muscles as the battle thickened. Though Saoirse was harsh, and unforgiving, she was no villain, at least not in her sense of the word. She did not harm the innocent just for fun. But this was organized, and that meant she could talk pleasure in it with no guilt.
Though it was the excitement that distracted her from his next blow. she tried to waltz away from his antlers, but was to clumsy, and too late to avoid the blow. They struck her in the chest, pushing her back, knocking the wind out of her. She heaved for a moment, as he pushed her back, surely leaving what would be an impressive bruise across the width of her chest. As she regained her composure she let herself get pushed for a second, dropping any resistance, thinking.
He had her in a vulnerable position, stuck between his antlers, unable to back unless he stopped moving. Her head stuck above them. But perhaps she could use that to her advantage. With his head down his neck was arched up, and so she lashed out at it with open jaws, aiming straight for the nape of his neck, hoping that he'd stumble back if she successfully latched onto it.
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