MADE A GRAVEYARD FROM THE BONE-WHITE AFTERNOON.
The taste of iron fills Bexley’s mouth when her teeth finally find purchase on Aion’s skin, and she’s not sure whether the smell of blood-salt flooding her senses is disgusting or satisfying.
Either way, she spits his blood onto the ground as soon as she’s able: as much as she’s lusted for the adrenaline of this moment, actually experiencing it is a different story entirely, and something about this first taste of violence in weeks is unsettling. Red spatters the slick mud at their feet. Storm clouds brew threateningly overhead. Rain mists their skin in silver droplets, and the sound of it falling from overhead should be a comfort, a lullaby Bexley knows all too well from childhood, but whatever repose it might have brought is drowned out by the fantastically loud beating of her heart, the thunder of her blood thrumming through her veins.
The scar on her face almost seems to throb with anticipation - maybe it’s just her too-loud pulse. Aion is out of sight now, lost in the storm. He’s a monochrome bullet flying past her and into the whirling silver rain. Something like fear flickers through her as she realizes the disadvantage she’ll be at if she loses sight of him; even the most inexperienced warrior knows not to turn their back on an enemy, and she cannot afford to make such a novice mistake. Find him. Find him before he finds you. Bexley’s hooves scrape through the wet earth as she struggles frantically for better footing.
Over the pounding in her head, some innate premonition of danger (or maybe it’s simply well-placed suspicion) rises in her chest. Bexley’s gaze snaps upward to find Aion through the misty rain. That premonition was right: she sees him coming back to face her head-on, steaming with rage and about to pounce, and springs into action as quickly as she can. Tensing her muscles with steely focus and planting her back hooves deep into the dirt, Bexley leans back in place until the very last moment it’s feasible - the moment Aion is so close she can see faint sunlight glinting off his bone-white snarl - then launches upward into a high rear.
They collide the next second. Thank Solis her timing is accurate; his teeth still graze her, scraping a loose line over her chest, but doesn’t sink nearly as deep as it might have on her neck or shoulder. Blood wells and drips down her foreleg, but the subtle, prickling pain that hounds her now is nothing compared to what might have happened, and for that Bexley is indubitably grateful.
There’s only a moment for her to decide what to do as she stands, front legs wheeling, high in the air. But a moment is enough.
As the rain pours down around them, as her foothold in the mud starts to slip - as blood begins crystallizing on her shoulder, and she realizes, infuriated, that what should be hot pain has been replaced with deep-running frostbite - Bexley drives her front legs down, down, down, aiming on either side of Aion’s neck to land one sharp-curved hoof on each shoulder. Whether it bruises or cuts, whether both blows land or neither, all she can hope for is an assault that finds some kind of purchase on Aion’s too-white, too-unblemished form.
Something in her is jealous of how few scars he carries. But, Gods willing, she’ll never have to admit it.
Either way, she spits his blood onto the ground as soon as she’s able: as much as she’s lusted for the adrenaline of this moment, actually experiencing it is a different story entirely, and something about this first taste of violence in weeks is unsettling. Red spatters the slick mud at their feet. Storm clouds brew threateningly overhead. Rain mists their skin in silver droplets, and the sound of it falling from overhead should be a comfort, a lullaby Bexley knows all too well from childhood, but whatever repose it might have brought is drowned out by the fantastically loud beating of her heart, the thunder of her blood thrumming through her veins.
The scar on her face almost seems to throb with anticipation - maybe it’s just her too-loud pulse. Aion is out of sight now, lost in the storm. He’s a monochrome bullet flying past her and into the whirling silver rain. Something like fear flickers through her as she realizes the disadvantage she’ll be at if she loses sight of him; even the most inexperienced warrior knows not to turn their back on an enemy, and she cannot afford to make such a novice mistake. Find him. Find him before he finds you. Bexley’s hooves scrape through the wet earth as she struggles frantically for better footing.
Over the pounding in her head, some innate premonition of danger (or maybe it’s simply well-placed suspicion) rises in her chest. Bexley’s gaze snaps upward to find Aion through the misty rain. That premonition was right: she sees him coming back to face her head-on, steaming with rage and about to pounce, and springs into action as quickly as she can. Tensing her muscles with steely focus and planting her back hooves deep into the dirt, Bexley leans back in place until the very last moment it’s feasible - the moment Aion is so close she can see faint sunlight glinting off his bone-white snarl - then launches upward into a high rear.
They collide the next second. Thank Solis her timing is accurate; his teeth still graze her, scraping a loose line over her chest, but doesn’t sink nearly as deep as it might have on her neck or shoulder. Blood wells and drips down her foreleg, but the subtle, prickling pain that hounds her now is nothing compared to what might have happened, and for that Bexley is indubitably grateful.
There’s only a moment for her to decide what to do as she stands, front legs wheeling, high in the air. But a moment is enough.
As the rain pours down around them, as her foothold in the mud starts to slip - as blood begins crystallizing on her shoulder, and she realizes, infuriated, that what should be hot pain has been replaced with deep-running frostbite - Bexley drives her front legs down, down, down, aiming on either side of Aion’s neck to land one sharp-curved hoof on each shoulder. Whether it bruises or cuts, whether both blows land or neither, all she can hope for is an assault that finds some kind of purchase on Aion’s too-white, too-unblemished form.
Something in her is jealous of how few scars he carries. But, Gods willing, she’ll never have to admit it.
Summary: As Aion lashes out to bite her, Bexley rears so that it only grazes her chest, then uses the rear as her last attack by coming down in an attempt to drive her hooves against Aion's shoulders.
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 1
Block(s) Left: 0
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: 6/25/18
Tags: @aion, @
