ours is the fury
Wolfram is a looming shadow behind the masses of bodies crowding around the arena, cast to the walls around them. Bids and bets are thrown to the air, aggressive and proud and certain until they are not. Titles are born and names made here. This was a scenery not unfamiliar to him; the blood, sweat, and vigor in the air, in the closed confines of all the bodies. It was almost like a second home, although that word is bitter on his tongue.
He remembers times where he relished the fight. Not to say he had lost that passion within him, only that he hadn't felt it in a long time. Life was boring, the theme monotonous. He looks from above the heads of other horses to dismally regard the fights that unravel. Some impressive, in their own right, others just plain and short. Nothing stands out to him, eyes languidly following the winners off the arena and back into the throw of bodies, only to be replaced by new combatants.
When a pale mare takes her position in the ring, Wolfram's ears flick dimly. He watches her movements and notes the scars marking her pelt, the composed way of which she holds herself. The stallion she's up against is red as the blood on the stones and sand with an obvious penchant for entertainment. He knows how to rile the crowd. He knows how to exude confidence.
The mare makes hardly any movement at all. Aside from that calm smile and the closing of her eyes, there is nothing about her that betrays what she is thinking. His eyes narrow and heavy brows knit in concentration; reading the fight itself came naturally at this point. Of course one could never know the end of each and every fight; odds can be stacked and weighed in the middle of a fight. At this point, for all intents and purposes, the chestnut stallion seemed more likely to win. But that was only because he was parading himself, and looks were certainly not everything. He would most likely strike first, unless the mare caught an opening in his flaunting. Otherwise she would let him come to her, and depending then on how accurate the movements and attacks were, the fight could end quite fast or draw out.
In the end, it's faster than even he anticipates and his chin lifts just slightly as he watches her ground him. A snort leaves him, although otherwise his expression remains entirely emotionless, as it has been. Cheers crowd the space and vibrate the entire arena, money is passed around and traded, and Wolfram watches this 'White Lion' closely as she exits the arena after a firm look to her opponent. She weaves through the congratulatory and spiteful, and for several moments all seems normal - until a venomous shout near him makes his attention divert.
"I call fraud! You, girl - you made me lose everything! I demand a rematch, all-or-nothing, there's no way you could have beaten a stallion twice your size!"
An exaggeration at best. He loses his deep voice against the moron yelling for some desperate compensation. These were the pits - there was none to be found here. These fights were as true and raw as anything. You lost, you lost. You won, you won.
"You lost your coin, boy. Face your poor judgment with some dignity. Or else you'd rather put your coin where your mouth is and face that beast yourself?" His head tilts to the side, toward where the White Lion was among the crowd. The man he'd spoken up against is hard-pressed for words at the thought, jumbles and curses and speaks nonsense under his breath as he tries to ghost away from the attention while still seeming like he had something to say back. Wolfram continues to stare hard at him until he is just one with the crowd again, and things continue when two new fighters enter the arena and bets are once more placed and shared and the monotony of the game continues.
Looking back toward the mare's direction, he'd offer a slight dip of his head if he can find her and meet her gaze. It was a wordless invitation as much as it was a simple regard to her, and if she decided to join him, there was certainly no fault in that. He slips further to the outskirts of the gathering, and if she came closer, would greet her company with... Not telling her to leave him alone.
@Castalla <3
He remembers times where he relished the fight. Not to say he had lost that passion within him, only that he hadn't felt it in a long time. Life was boring, the theme monotonous. He looks from above the heads of other horses to dismally regard the fights that unravel. Some impressive, in their own right, others just plain and short. Nothing stands out to him, eyes languidly following the winners off the arena and back into the throw of bodies, only to be replaced by new combatants.
When a pale mare takes her position in the ring, Wolfram's ears flick dimly. He watches her movements and notes the scars marking her pelt, the composed way of which she holds herself. The stallion she's up against is red as the blood on the stones and sand with an obvious penchant for entertainment. He knows how to rile the crowd. He knows how to exude confidence.
The mare makes hardly any movement at all. Aside from that calm smile and the closing of her eyes, there is nothing about her that betrays what she is thinking. His eyes narrow and heavy brows knit in concentration; reading the fight itself came naturally at this point. Of course one could never know the end of each and every fight; odds can be stacked and weighed in the middle of a fight. At this point, for all intents and purposes, the chestnut stallion seemed more likely to win. But that was only because he was parading himself, and looks were certainly not everything. He would most likely strike first, unless the mare caught an opening in his flaunting. Otherwise she would let him come to her, and depending then on how accurate the movements and attacks were, the fight could end quite fast or draw out.
In the end, it's faster than even he anticipates and his chin lifts just slightly as he watches her ground him. A snort leaves him, although otherwise his expression remains entirely emotionless, as it has been. Cheers crowd the space and vibrate the entire arena, money is passed around and traded, and Wolfram watches this 'White Lion' closely as she exits the arena after a firm look to her opponent. She weaves through the congratulatory and spiteful, and for several moments all seems normal - until a venomous shout near him makes his attention divert.
"I call fraud! You, girl - you made me lose everything! I demand a rematch, all-or-nothing, there's no way you could have beaten a stallion twice your size!"
An exaggeration at best. He loses his deep voice against the moron yelling for some desperate compensation. These were the pits - there was none to be found here. These fights were as true and raw as anything. You lost, you lost. You won, you won.
"You lost your coin, boy. Face your poor judgment with some dignity. Or else you'd rather put your coin where your mouth is and face that beast yourself?" His head tilts to the side, toward where the White Lion was among the crowd. The man he'd spoken up against is hard-pressed for words at the thought, jumbles and curses and speaks nonsense under his breath as he tries to ghost away from the attention while still seeming like he had something to say back. Wolfram continues to stare hard at him until he is just one with the crowd again, and things continue when two new fighters enter the arena and bets are once more placed and shared and the monotony of the game continues.
Looking back toward the mare's direction, he'd offer a slight dip of his head if he can find her and meet her gaze. It was a wordless invitation as much as it was a simple regard to her, and if she decided to join him, there was certainly no fault in that. He slips further to the outskirts of the gathering, and if she came closer, would greet her company with... Not telling her to leave him alone.
Speech
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