asterion*
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, the way the island clings to his thoughts like barnacles, like salt to skin. It holds a rare fascination for him, each marvelous beast and whiff of magic its own kind of captor. There is, too, the feeling it gives him of reality suspended, all his worries and woes and hopes for Terrastella left on the mainland. And there is Raum, elusive, leaving him a frustrated hunter with his work undone.
It is the silver stallion he thinks of now, neglectful of the beauty of the day, of the wildflowers that bloom and shiver in the breeze. How has the murderer-king slipped the nooses of so many? Asterion has never been a violent man - but what good were the peaceful dead?
The trek to Bellum Steppe passes quickly, and though there is no war-cry on his tongue the magic within him is fitful, a choppy sea, a building wave. At last the Dusk king regards Ipomoea from across the field and wonders what revelations the stallion will have for him.
Once he might have thought this battle easy, facing off against a man with a similar kind of softness to himself, but Asterion has learned better by now. Each step further into the hallowed ground brings to mind the others he’s faced here, and the surprises they had paid him. He thinks of Katniss with her steady strength and the eagle that gave him his tattered ear; of Marisol with her proud wings and the spear that left a thin skein of scar along his side. All these battles he has fought for no cause but scars and wisdom. One day, he knows, the stakes will be higher. That is why he returns, again and again, despite the memory of the sting of scrapes and the ache of battered bones and the bright copper scent of blood.
It is not so difficult to imagine Po is here for the same reason.
Despite his heavy shroud of thoughts, the bay matches his opponent’s smile, then lifts his gaze to include the jay in his welcome. His own companion is a splash of white far overhead, little for now but an observing eye. “Ipomoea,” he answers, and the smile fades again like foam back into the sea. Asterion does not echo the stallion’s bow; he only watches, attentive to each curve of muscle, to the graceful fold of wings on Po’s feet.
Your move, the appaloosa says, but Asterion is already moving, lunging low toward those feathered feet before the syllables fade from the springtime air. They are already close, separated by a matter of feet easily swallowed up by his strike. The bay aims his hooves for Ipomoea’s slender white-speckled forelegs, expecting the cherry bay to be swift enough to evade him. But there is little chance that Po can move out of the way entirely, so close were they standing. Whether or not his blow lands, he anticipates a collision of skin to skin, with his chest or shoulder a ram to shove Po off his center of gravity.
Asterion knows how difficult it is to fight back when you’ve lost your balance, and every moment spent regaining it might mean a missed opportunity.
@Ipomoea I have full faith in him <3
Summary: Asterion's thoughts are still on the island, and of the necessity of battle. He arrives, walks forward to meet Po, and lunges for his forelegs as soon as Po says "your move."
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: NA
Response Deadline: 7/22 (but open to allowing all the time needed)
Tags: @Ipomoea, @Sid, @inkbone, @Sparrow, @nestle, @
