His body trembles and aches, but the immortality flushes through his veins, making him feel like he's only five years old again. The heat of battle has always been something he's coveted, the adrenaline rush surging through his veins and a thundering in his chest. He's missed this. The way post battle his muscles ache and skin burns from wounds that dance over his scarred flesh.
A heavy breath is taken, and Leviathan lifts his head high, casting a glare with an icy eye ( the only one, the other is scarred and milky ) toward his opponent. It is done. Their spar is complete, and they leave, just as he turns and leaves. The rush of chemical high sings in his veins, keeps his wounds from feeling too much, wakes him from the stupor of his usual life. Generally, he's a grumpy thing, but not today. Today, he smirks as he steps away from where he had fought, casting a massive shadow with heavy steps as he eventually finds water.
Large ears swivel before Leviathan finally ducks his head, pausing a moment to look at a reflection that's changed so much over the years. Only recently has he been granted this new form to keep, the rugged looks of a ground dweller he was always meant to be. Tilting his head, he looks at the chipping of his horn and then the reflection of his bad eye, the scar over the right side jagged and ever present. It will never see again, as he's only finally lost the blurry shapes and dull colors, nothing but black on that side now. But he doesn't need both eyes to see, not if he still has one good one.
A twist of his ears is given, feeling them flatten a moment as he dips down to drink instead, mulling over thoughts. With luck, this battle may leave some scars, the trophies of his life that he carries with him everywhere. No matter what shape he takes, his scars always come with it.
For now, it's quiet, and the adrenaline is slowing down in his body, ebbing away and leaving behind a pleasant ache and the ever present urge to seek out what he had come here for. Solterra. Soon, he will be among the sands of his home once more.
There is a red-raw gash on her right shoulder where she traded a glancing blow from her opponent for the opportunity to sink her teeth into their flesh and grip their windpipe. Taller than them, stronger than them, she wedged the point of her left shoulder into where neck met shoulder met arm, twisting her chin and under-jaw up and away in a vicious tearing maneuver. She threw all her weight into her side body, wings thrust out for support, and by the strength of her neck, whipped her opponent around in front of her and then to the ground.
She held them there, now, with one hoof pressed sidelong over the critical pulse point along their jugular line. Their neck was a mess of blood and teeth marks; their chest heaved and fell with great effort. Their mouth begins to move with fearful babbling as they yield, they yield, they yield.
Warbird relents, immediately. She removes her hold on the prostrate creature and backs away, keeping eyes on them at all times (only a foolish fighter turns their back on their enemy, defeated or not). It was only when their opponent had staggered to their feet and limped away, out of site, did Warbird settle in to take stock. It was a decently fought battle, but their opponent was unprepared for an adversary her size to also be so quick. Warbird’s breath was even, her muscles exerted a comfortable amount; nothing she was unused to.
Stykkislange sniffed at the shallow wound on her shoulder. She plunged her serpentine tongue into it to measure it’s depth. Deeming it not life-threatening, she slithered back to the pile of black armor her master had left her in charge of.
you take this armor with you everywhere you go, Stykki said, tone verging on moaning complaint, and it is heavy and you make me carry it. why do you not wear it when you fight?
“Because I so love listening to you whine about it,” Warbird said, inspecting the armor in question for any mark or scratch. Radogrid had not raised a slouch. “It is a poor warrior who relies on their armor for a training battle.”
but why do you make me carry it? Stykki wheedled, full-on whinging now.
“You must serve some purpose other than complaining?” Warbird fixed her in a stern stare and the seven-foot long serpent hissed moreosely and went to flailing on the ground, like a hognose snake in the throws of it’s fake death knell.
She leaves Stykki to her temper tantrum and goes in search of water; she follows the sounds of a nearby stream where she finds, to her surprise, another creature drinking there: a great, hulking beast of slate and stripes, adorned with a blackened horn run through with streaks of lightning-blue.
His sides heave less and less with each moment, suggesting to Warbird he has also just emerged victorious from his own fight. She meets his one, striking eye with her own blood-red orbs and gives him a strong nod, before dipping her own head to drink.
She keeps one eye on this stranger at all times.
@Leviathan | "Speech."stykkislange speech | just let me be ur friend okay
01-24-2021, 06:08 PM
Played by
Kaiju [PM] Posts: 42 — Threads: 17 Signos: 215
He's come to relish fighting. The burn of muscles and dampness that settles under his fur. The wounds he would carry after they turn into scars. Leviathan has long been one that enjoys a good spar and fight, and has also come to be far too confident in his own abilities. Enough that he doesn't cast paranoid glances or wary gazes even when his head is down and his lips are touching cold water. He knows his strength, and knows honor in Novus. Many here would never attack unprovoked, and even if they did, he had the confidence to defend himself. If he earned a few new scars out of it, so what?
So he only sees movement and passes a mildly curious glance toward a pegasus, only to look away without so much as a worry.
There is no greeting, only silence as he drinks his fill and lifts his head. It doesn't take much for him to convince himself to step into the stream itself a little more, sinking into the water and allowing it to lap at his heated body, cooling him off and allowing him a sharper focus. He only has a few nicks here and there; the fight hadn't been meant to injure but to train. He's sorely lacking in that department: it's been far too long since he's raised hoof and horn in any sort of manner other than before when he had faced the Teryr. That had been a hunt, but other than that? Spars, not war, had been his lifeblood.
It helped distract him.
His ears swivel, and he doesn't give another glance towards the mare, focusing instead on sinking more in the water, muscles still moving to prevent any sort of soreness from settling in. Later on, he'll tend to whatever bruises he has. Torstein had made a good impression those years ago, and Leviathan keeps a batch of aloe in his own little quarters, just to help tend his wounds and soreness when it felt like too much.
She was a creature of action and so craved any sort. Stagnation and stillness were counterproductive methods of existence, bringing about the slow, steady death of body, and soul. Born innate into her musculature, her bones and blood, was the immortal nature of the Valkyr; incessant beings, following the noble and true into battle, fearless and faultless, with steel drawn and wings spread. But here, clinging to flesh of a mortal nature, she was bound and entrapped, caged in this earthly sphere only as high as her wings could take her. Scars would mar her flesh and wounds, like the stinging one on her right shoulder, would harden into scars. She was not deserving of the other-wordly, ethereal beauty of her mothers.
Not yet, anyhow.
The brute she nears is a hefty creature seemingly hewn out of slate. His brow is adorned with a sharp, slightly listed onyx horn, worn with whorls and ridges and seemingly shot through with lighting; his eyes, too, are reminiscent of the bolts of energy, terrifying and chaotic, which slash across the sky during unruly storms.
They meet eyes, briefly, glowing red and glowing blue, and he dismisses her with countenance lowered towards the water. It bothers her not. She is not prideful insofar as the opinions of mortals carry weight. He seems a lonely sort, anyhow, a bit stuffy and burlish, like a stormhead. Full of himself as water in a raincloud, soot-black and temperamental. Liable to pop at any moment only to drain petulantly over the land.
Such were first impressions.
Warbird lifts her head from the river and gives herself a shake, golden hairclasps jingling together like fine bells. She is still for a moment in her thoughts until the sound of slithering scales brings her ears forward and back in a simple flick of irritation. Stykkislange’s silverite form draws parallel to hers-- Warbird’s black steel spiked sunburst helmet is adorning her serpentine head, wobbling a bit-- and she peers around her master’s monochrome countenance at the stranger in the water.
who isssss that? she asks, tongue a lash in the warm air, can i eat them?
Warbird removes the headwear from Stykki’s skull and with invisible arms tucks it close to her side. “No, you may not,” she contravened, voice a flat, suppressed sigh, “might as be he’d foul your gut, anyhow.” He was far too large for the ophidian to consume-- in one piece, at least.
Stykki, however, was not adverse to a meal of various courses, even if it was a labor of many days of consumption. She pulled the front half of her body into a lazy slouch, peering grumpily at the smoke-colored form in the water.
@Leviathan | "Speech."stykkislange speech | sorry 4 da wait
