they want to see us, want to see us alone
For the flicker of a second, just before Caine pulls his lashing hooves back towards his elbows, something shifts.
It is so slight that, at first, he thinks he is mistaken. There is rain blurring his eyes and sand stinging his cheeks but, when he blinks them away and looks again, he sees it etched on her as clearly as glyphs on a clay tablet.
Fear. Or — something close to it. He is not enough of an expert in reading emotions to be sure, but it is not Fia’s expression that hints it to him at all. It is — the stillness that settles over her like a shroud, her sudden suspension in slow-shifting space — that Caine recognizes and, somehow inexplicably, understands.
He has not known Fia for long. Not long, no, but long enough. Long enough for him to think, rather foolishly (like a soft-eyed, sweet-dimpled boy) that they may be similar.
His eyes drag over her scar like fingers dancing across the keys of a piano. His hooves tuck back under him. He rams into her chest.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, you are - and I wouldn’t want to leave a mark.” Her voice breaks a bit in the middle, when he sends her sliding backwards. His eyes stare into hers — the blue one is as blue as sapphires even in this light — and he wears his smirk like a medallion.
A puff of air escapes Caine’s lips when his hooves slam down into the wet sand, just to the left of her silver form. The force of his landing sends sparks up his cannon bones that gather in his knees and unsteady them like he had unsteadied her. He pants into the sand, his breath crystallizing into clouds. He watches her from the corner of his eye: righting herself, drawing her limbs back under her like a dancer landing a leap. Her recovery is swift, though he expects nothing less. He will be swifter.
She is a rearing silhouette under the torches and the pouring, pouring rain. Quickly, in a burst of inspiration, Caine wrenches both of his right wings open and throws his weight towards their waterlogged mass. If his wings are so adamant on being a burden, then he will twist their burden back into advantage.
He manages to shy to the right of her pawing hooves — aiming straight for his chest — by half a hair, maybe less, and grits his teeth when they scrape down on his left shoulder. Like her bite, the pain (specifically, the lack of it) is enough to elicit another withering smile from him.
“Should I count that as a mark?”
He does not wait for an answer. As swift as a viper, Caine sinks down into his ankles and snaps his neck to the left, towards her exposed side, just as her hooves touch back against the ground. Before his teeth make contact, he wrenches his neck higher and higher, until his back ankles twist in the sand to bear the bending of his spine. A sharp little pain snakes up the right one, and vaguely he wonders if he has sprained it.
A small sacrifice. He ignores it wholeheartedly.
His teeth clamp down on the white hair at the point of Fia’s withers, and Caine does not relax his hold until he spins the rest of his body around to join him. His shoulder presses parallel to hers, and his sides heave as he finds his breath.
“I did have scars, you know. They were just… removed.” The addition of wings, the removal of scars. Caine is nothing more than a patchwork of magic and blood and crumbling bits of boy.
“Back there, you —” Caine pauses, wondering if he should go on. The rain answers for him, muffling his voice and washing the hesitation away. “For a moment, you weren't here.”
It is so slight that, at first, he thinks he is mistaken. There is rain blurring his eyes and sand stinging his cheeks but, when he blinks them away and looks again, he sees it etched on her as clearly as glyphs on a clay tablet.
Fear. Or — something close to it. He is not enough of an expert in reading emotions to be sure, but it is not Fia’s expression that hints it to him at all. It is — the stillness that settles over her like a shroud, her sudden suspension in slow-shifting space — that Caine recognizes and, somehow inexplicably, understands.
He has not known Fia for long. Not long, no, but long enough. Long enough for him to think, rather foolishly (like a soft-eyed, sweet-dimpled boy) that they may be similar.
His eyes drag over her scar like fingers dancing across the keys of a piano. His hooves tuck back under him. He rams into her chest.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, you are - and I wouldn’t want to leave a mark.” Her voice breaks a bit in the middle, when he sends her sliding backwards. His eyes stare into hers — the blue one is as blue as sapphires even in this light — and he wears his smirk like a medallion.
A puff of air escapes Caine’s lips when his hooves slam down into the wet sand, just to the left of her silver form. The force of his landing sends sparks up his cannon bones that gather in his knees and unsteady them like he had unsteadied her. He pants into the sand, his breath crystallizing into clouds. He watches her from the corner of his eye: righting herself, drawing her limbs back under her like a dancer landing a leap. Her recovery is swift, though he expects nothing less. He will be swifter.
She is a rearing silhouette under the torches and the pouring, pouring rain. Quickly, in a burst of inspiration, Caine wrenches both of his right wings open and throws his weight towards their waterlogged mass. If his wings are so adamant on being a burden, then he will twist their burden back into advantage.
He manages to shy to the right of her pawing hooves — aiming straight for his chest — by half a hair, maybe less, and grits his teeth when they scrape down on his left shoulder. Like her bite, the pain (specifically, the lack of it) is enough to elicit another withering smile from him.
“Should I count that as a mark?”
He does not wait for an answer. As swift as a viper, Caine sinks down into his ankles and snaps his neck to the left, towards her exposed side, just as her hooves touch back against the ground. Before his teeth make contact, he wrenches his neck higher and higher, until his back ankles twist in the sand to bear the bending of his spine. A sharp little pain snakes up the right one, and vaguely he wonders if he has sprained it.
A small sacrifice. He ignores it wholeheartedly.
His teeth clamp down on the white hair at the point of Fia’s withers, and Caine does not relax his hold until he spins the rest of his body around to join him. His shoulder presses parallel to hers, and his sides heave as he finds his breath.
“I did have scars, you know. They were just… removed.” The addition of wings, the removal of scars. Caine is nothing more than a patchwork of magic and blood and crumbling bits of boy.
“Back there, you —” Caine pauses, wondering if he should go on. The rain answers for him, muffling his voice and washing the hesitation away. “For a moment, you weren't here.”
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: behold, caine hesitating over his words for the first time in the span of this spar
Summary: Caine manages to dodge Seraphina's hooves by letting the weight of his extended right wings give him the extra momentum he needs to spring to the right. He then pauses for breath before snapping his neck to the left when she lands from her rear, clamping his teeth down on her withers. His bite is meant more to hold her down than to wound, and he sprains his back ankle a little bending himself that far to the left. He brings himself parallel to Seraphina, lets go, and says some meaningful things.
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 1
Block(s) Left: 0
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 21
Tags: @Seraphina, @Sid, @inkbone, @Sparrow, @nestle, @aimless
Attack Used: 2
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 1
Block(s) Left: 0
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 21
Tags: @
