and you say that I'm the devil you know and I don't disagree
Caine watches Fia remove her armor and sword — and that fateful silver arrow — with quiet, contemplative interest. Her control over her telekinesis (or lack thereof; a corner of his lip lifts at the memory) has always struck him as peculiar.
From his less-than-comprehensive observations of her, cobbled together through a course of fleeting rendezvous’ all cloaked by a heavy veil of intrigue, the kind she wields seems far stronger and defter than the sort endowed by Tempus to the citizens of his realm. In Vectaeryn, they had not attached any sort of divine blessing to such a minor magic. Their version of Solterran weather, he muses.
“It’s far more charming than the blizzard was.”
“The blizzard —” Caine snorts, breath streaming from his mouth like curls of bonfire smoke. “Your gods are temperamental,” he finishes, dragging the syllables of temperamental pointedly as he blinks away the beads of water convening on his lashes. And don mortal forms at will. The memory of Solis’ incendiary presence is unpleasant enough to agitate the life back into Caine’s stiffening limbs.
But he has never dwelled on thoughts of the divine, and tonight is not the night to begin. There is a spar to be seen to, first. So Caine fluffs his drenched wings even when he knows the pointlessness of it — there is a sort of peace to be gleaned from doing the pointless and mundane, is there not? — and begins to turn away towards the hazy suggestion of the sunken wall, before a neat little tug on his mane drags him to a halt.
“Nice hair.” He blinks, astonished, before his breath breaks into a chuckle. If she means to unbalance him before the match, then — “I am a quick learner. Especially when the teacher is of such — merit.” — he hopes to return the favor.
He concedes to her the first move not because he is a gentleman, but because he has always been far better at reacting than attacking outright. Despite what his occupation may suggest. He sees Fia's lips form the shape of words when he looks over at her, though Caine does not catch them over the crescendo of rain.
Before he can spend too much time puzzling it over, she makes her move.
She is a silver smudge in the night, galloping towards him faster than a lightning strike. Adrenaline buzzes down his taut frame and pools in the tips of his rain-drenched feathers as he shifts onto his haunches, tucking them under like a cat readying for a leap. He does not know enough about his opponent to predict what she means to do, so Caine plays his one advantage — his assassin-honed agility — and waits for her to show her hand.
His wings are slick as knives against his sides as he tracks Fia through the downpour, counting her strides to the tick of a silent metronome. There is a certain rhythm to the way a fight unfolds — the intake of breath before a strike, the even trajectory of a well-aimed kick — and after taking enough knives in the gut, the boy has learned to find that rhythm early on. He knows his weaknesses like the pious know their prayers, and he breathes them to himself as Fia streaks down the waterlogged sand.
The weight of his wings: they will slow his movements down by precious seconds. (Five strides away.) The lightness of his build: a solid strike will wind him enough to count. (Three strides, now.) His lack of expertise in fighting unarmed: brute strength has never been his fortitude, and —
A stride away, her haunches buckle — and too late does Caine realize that she means to stop. Sand sprays up from her sliding hooves, and he jerks his head to the right to avoid being blinded. He has left enough space between himself and the wall (the worst possible scenario an assassin could get himself into is being cornered like a witless mouse) to shy to either side — but he does not take it. He would not be able to get clear before she reaches him, damn his wings, so when she stretches her neck towards his, he does not pull away.
His jaw clenches when her teeth find purchase on his slick neck, but to his surprise her bite is light, little more than a warning. Caine narrows his eyes at her for a fraction of a second before he lunges upwards into a rear.
She is shorter than him by a full hand, but she is built sturdier and trained better — if she had been standing steady when he reared, Caine would not have had the strength to push her backwards as he hopes to do. Instead, he counts on her unsteadiness after that dragging halt to make up for what he lacks in strength.
His back hooves dig into the sand and propel him forwards, his front hooves clawing towards her eyes — until he tucks them neatly in. He has no wish to land a single hoof anywhere near the delicate bones of her face. Instead, he aims to slam his chest into hers, knocking her off-balance and giving him the opportunity to gain ground.
He also manages to chirp out, “Am I really that delicate looking?” between pants. His mouth curls into a smirk just shy of her ear.
From his less-than-comprehensive observations of her, cobbled together through a course of fleeting rendezvous’ all cloaked by a heavy veil of intrigue, the kind she wields seems far stronger and defter than the sort endowed by Tempus to the citizens of his realm. In Vectaeryn, they had not attached any sort of divine blessing to such a minor magic. Their version of Solterran weather, he muses.
“It’s far more charming than the blizzard was.”
“The blizzard —” Caine snorts, breath streaming from his mouth like curls of bonfire smoke. “Your gods are temperamental,” he finishes, dragging the syllables of temperamental pointedly as he blinks away the beads of water convening on his lashes. And don mortal forms at will. The memory of Solis’ incendiary presence is unpleasant enough to agitate the life back into Caine’s stiffening limbs.
But he has never dwelled on thoughts of the divine, and tonight is not the night to begin. There is a spar to be seen to, first. So Caine fluffs his drenched wings even when he knows the pointlessness of it — there is a sort of peace to be gleaned from doing the pointless and mundane, is there not? — and begins to turn away towards the hazy suggestion of the sunken wall, before a neat little tug on his mane drags him to a halt.
“Nice hair.” He blinks, astonished, before his breath breaks into a chuckle. If she means to unbalance him before the match, then — “I am a quick learner. Especially when the teacher is of such — merit.” — he hopes to return the favor.
He concedes to her the first move not because he is a gentleman, but because he has always been far better at reacting than attacking outright. Despite what his occupation may suggest. He sees Fia's lips form the shape of words when he looks over at her, though Caine does not catch them over the crescendo of rain.
Before he can spend too much time puzzling it over, she makes her move.
She is a silver smudge in the night, galloping towards him faster than a lightning strike. Adrenaline buzzes down his taut frame and pools in the tips of his rain-drenched feathers as he shifts onto his haunches, tucking them under like a cat readying for a leap. He does not know enough about his opponent to predict what she means to do, so Caine plays his one advantage — his assassin-honed agility — and waits for her to show her hand.
His wings are slick as knives against his sides as he tracks Fia through the downpour, counting her strides to the tick of a silent metronome. There is a certain rhythm to the way a fight unfolds — the intake of breath before a strike, the even trajectory of a well-aimed kick — and after taking enough knives in the gut, the boy has learned to find that rhythm early on. He knows his weaknesses like the pious know their prayers, and he breathes them to himself as Fia streaks down the waterlogged sand.
The weight of his wings: they will slow his movements down by precious seconds. (Five strides away.) The lightness of his build: a solid strike will wind him enough to count. (Three strides, now.) His lack of expertise in fighting unarmed: brute strength has never been his fortitude, and —
A stride away, her haunches buckle — and too late does Caine realize that she means to stop. Sand sprays up from her sliding hooves, and he jerks his head to the right to avoid being blinded. He has left enough space between himself and the wall (the worst possible scenario an assassin could get himself into is being cornered like a witless mouse) to shy to either side — but he does not take it. He would not be able to get clear before she reaches him, damn his wings, so when she stretches her neck towards his, he does not pull away.
His jaw clenches when her teeth find purchase on his slick neck, but to his surprise her bite is light, little more than a warning. Caine narrows his eyes at her for a fraction of a second before he lunges upwards into a rear.
She is shorter than him by a full hand, but she is built sturdier and trained better — if she had been standing steady when he reared, Caine would not have had the strength to push her backwards as he hopes to do. Instead, he counts on her unsteadiness after that dragging halt to make up for what he lacks in strength.
His back hooves dig into the sand and propel him forwards, his front hooves clawing towards her eyes — until he tucks them neatly in. He has no wish to land a single hoof anywhere near the delicate bones of her face. Instead, he aims to slam his chest into hers, knocking her off-balance and giving him the opportunity to gain ground.
He also manages to chirp out, “Am I really that delicate looking?” between pants. His mouth curls into a smirk just shy of her ear.
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: the real spar is in the witty comebacks
Summary: Caine responds to Seraphina's snarks with some of his own, and when she makes her move he readies himself by shifting his weight to his haunches. He realizes that she means to stop a second too late, and instead of shying to the side (he suspects that his wings will delay him too much), he takes the brunt of her bite and uses his saved momentum to launch into a rear. He aims to slam into Seraphina's chest and drive her backwards, while also gaining room for himself as he's almost backed up against the wall. Also manages to inject another healthy dose of snark while he's at it.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 13
Tags: @Seraphina, @Sid, @inkbone, @Sparrow, @nestle, @aimless
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 13
Tags: @
