Asterion He should have figured she’d be able to twist away from him like a cat, ducking her head out from under him so he wound up with only a mouthful of hair. He is still grateful she is not twenty yards above him, planning a dive at his head; he has still not learned how to defend himself from someone with wings. Perhaps they could work on that next time. For now he snorts a breath as his hooves, too, stumble back to the sodden ground, wincing when his injured shoulder is jostled by the contact. Distantly he notes that she is foundering, pitching like a storm-sea ship, and there is a part of him that wants to pursue her even now, still unwilling to give her room for momentum. But the Commander finds her feet in the early morning sunshine and she is gone and gone, putting a distance between them that it would pain his shoulder to narrow. So Asterion lets her go, keeping his eyes on her, using the time to gulp cool breaths of air and try to spit hair from his mouth. Now she is only a silhouette of her shape, save for the bright underside of her wings when she opens them. She is still arcing, knitting a circle around them with her hoof-steps; he is still watching her, each muscle taut, his shoulder aching distantly. His heart is somewhere in his throat when he sees the thin shape separate from her, become its own limb, but he is not surprised. She is nearly as inseparable from it as Raymond had been from his tail. Still it does not prepare him for having a spear hurled at him with killing speed by his own Commander. The sun glints off of it like a silver fish and for a moment he is tempted to only stand, to not move at all, to see what fate would make of him. By the time it is near enough he can hear the whine of it like a mosquito he has decided differently. Asterion lunges to the side, away from that savage arc, but not quite quickly enough. At first there is no pain but only heat when it rakes a strip of flesh from shoulder and haunch, but when it lands in the dirt with a thud it is burning. For a long moment he stares at her, gape-mouthed. Then he glances behind him to wear the spear leans in the dirt and then to her again, the cool gleam of her eyes, and wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t moved, and where exactly she had been aiming for. There is anger still churning inside him, a hum similar to the empty space left behind by his magic. As he feels the blood begin to bead and drip and mingle with saltwater on his hide he still regards her, wondering what to say. He could say You might have killed me. And she would say That is the point. And she would be right. Instead he offers a shake of his head, a wry little grin. The strip of skin along his side sears like a skinned knee and will require better tending than he alone can give, but it could have been worse. “We had better buy one another a beer, Commander.” he says instead, at last. “The first is on me.” |
Summary: Asterion decides not to pursue Marisol as she circles; he stands his ground, watching. When she launches the spear he dodges only enough to have it skim across his shoulder and haunch (I'm picturing it coming from straight on?)
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: NA
Response Deadline: n/a I think? just closers?
Tags: @
