I SWEAR TO GOD I WASN'T BORN TO FIGHT
maybe just a little bit, enough to make me sick of it
She arches her brow at the tone of his reply. “The blizzard- your gods are temperamental.” Seraphina does not miss the way that Caine’s tone drawls along the word temperamental, drawing it out like the string of a bow.
If she’d had the time to comment on Novus’s gods, perhaps she would have said that most gods are, or that wasn’t Solis’s doing, or only one of those gods is mine, but, really, she doesn’t know if any of those answers are true, so she keeps her mouth shut. Are gods so temperamental, outside of Novus? The rumors she has heard would suggest that they are, but she’s never actually left the continent, so she doesn’t know. (She’d never thought that she would want to, because Novus is her home, but the land has begun to weigh on her, like a heavy shroud. Something inside of her begs to escape.) She doesn’t think that the blizzard was Solis’s doing, at any rate; why would he have saved them from it, if it had been his creation? (Egotism, her mind answers, or some desire to be worshipped. She can’t quite believe it, though.) Worst of all, she asks herself, as she has so many times before, if Solis is even her god, if he ever has been. She doesn’t know if she cares. She doesn’t know if she believes him. She doesn’t know if it matters, either. God or no god, life goes on.
(She almost died. Would he still have taken her, if her body weren’t burned, if it had been buried beneath that sea of jewel-flowers – or would she have been forced to wander, listless and in-between – or would she have fallen down to somewhere much darker and colder than that, where there was nothing but impassive and empty black? She doesn’t know, and she isn’t sure if that is worse, or the answer.)
He isn’t far enough from her when she jerks his braid to miss his faint exhalation of laughter. “I am a quick learner. Especially when the teacher is of such — merit.” She rolls her eyes at that, but he’s already turned away. She waits.
She doesn’t get him as close to the wall as she would have liked, but she manages to back him up just enough to restrict his movement; her teeth find purchase in the slick curve of his neck. (He didn’t even attempt to jerk away, and, though she wonders why, she does not have time to consider the answer – the weight of his waterlogged feathers does not register.) Out of her peripheral vision, she notes his shift in expression – the slight narrowing of his eyes, as though her light nipping offended him. It might have been enough to make her snicker, but then he lunges, and she doesn’t have much time to contemplate the gesture.
She’s fighting him in close quarters now – so she isn’t especially surprised when he rears. What surprises her is her own reaction.
For a moment, when his hooves seem to be lunging towards her face, Seraphina feels a surge of white-hot adrenaline that threatens to manifest in the form of her telekinesis. She thinks of Raum. She thinks of his hoof, turning to a paw full of sharp, sharp claws, and the sensation – the sound – of her flesh being ripped open. She freezes up. (She has never frozen up before.) Sweat beads her brow, but she feels cold, cold as the grave, her breath curling like fog in the rain-soaked winter air; the only heat is on her cheek, those burning stripes of gold-scar flaring up as though she’d set them ablaze. Her magic pulses to the frantic, fluttering beat of her heart. Begs for release, to throw him back, to get those sharp, kicking dashes of midnight away from her eyes -
but she holds her magic back.
He isn’t actually aiming for her face; of course, he doesn’t actually aim to hurt her, but, in the moment, her panic outweighs her sense of reason. (In a fight, this is never good. She always thought that Viceroy beat the impulse towards fear out of her in favor of self-preservation.) He slams into her, and she stumbles back, losing her balance – the force is enough to bruise, and, more unfortunately, her reaction is so sluggish that her hooves dig awkwardly in the sand. She doesn’t think that the odd shift of her ankle is enough to sprain it, and it is not accompanied by any pain, but the uncomfortable movement is a bit too close for comfort for her.
His lips are right by her ear. “Am I really that delicate looking?” She doesn’t have to see him to know that he is smirking; she can hear the curve of his lips in his tone.
“Yes,” she responds flatly, punctuating with a gasp of breath, then adds, “Yes, you are - and I wouldn’t want to leave a mark.” (There is just a hint of dry humor to her tone.) This wasn’t at all to say that he struck her as especially pitiful; he certainly wasn’t as sturdily built as a soldier, but he was quick and lithe, and that presented a different sort of danger. To put it simply, he was delicate because he was too pretty, because of the largely-scarless lay of his inky black coat and the oft-loose expanses of his hair. If she had to put it into words, she would say that he was far too lovely to have experienced as much violence as she, reasonably, knew that he had – too lovely for something as horrible as a battlefield, and too lovely for so much blood.
She has always had a certain envy for pretty, delicate things; there has never been time for her to be one. Even if it is only on the exterior, she has no desire to damage those fine, unmarred features.
Rather than letting him hold her in position, she surrenders ground, allowing herself to be forced back; it gives her enough space to regain her balance, her limbs straightening. With a bit of space between them, and a bit of composure regained, Seraphina takes the opportunity to rear up, hind hooves digging into the slick sand for stability’s sake; he has a considerable bit of height on her, so she aims more for his chest when she lashes out. Her movements still aren’t especially forceful, the battering press of her hooves more of a gesture than an attack – she aims to bruise, perhaps lay a few cuts on him at the worst, but nothing more substantial.
@Caine || the real spar has to be the snark, because apparently sera is too worried about like, scratching him to actually fight him. as one does.
"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"
Summary: Sera thinks about religion and rolls her eyes a bit. She successfully nibbles at him a bit, but he's right about her being off-balance, and he manages to catch her off-guard by going for the face before he drops down a bit. Cue Raum flashbacks for the millionth time lately.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: 5/18 (discussed with Ralli, because finals for us both)
Tags: @Caine, @Sid, @inkbone, @Sparrow, @nestle, @
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
