Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
They used to call him the Reaper.
It is a name Zayir, even now, is not particularly fond of. But when he steps out onto the golden sands to the sound of the crowd, he feels the most—and least—like himself since emerging from the catacombs. He remembers the first Lady Marcisa Arisetta told him, you have a gift and the way he had felt his magic in his veins since he was a young boy.
They had mistaken it for combat magic, for a certain knack at fighting. It hadn’t been. No, Zayir knows Solis would never have been so kind to him. It had been magic for making men bleed, for creating—and winning—wars. The magic of death to the nth degree; the magic of slaughter, disunion, carrion and crows.
He feels naked, now, without it. He assesses the Warden of Delumine and thinks of how ironic it is the most peace-fairing of the courts has a warden willing to do battle in Solterra. Perhaps we’ve all strayed from our gods, Zayir thinks.
Zayir thinks they could not be more opposite. Andras is dark enough to swallow the sun, except for a single, storm-like streak of white. The man seems to crackle with barely contained energy. The effect raises the small hairs at the nape of Zayir’s neck; it is electric and powerful. Zayir bows in return, a show of respect. The courtesy at least remains old-fashioned, even if everything else has changed.
Zayir does not wait further to begin the battle. He starts at a trot through the sands directly toward Andras. The trot becomes a canter, and the canter a gallop. His wings extend and, as he nears, he uses them to propel a final burst of speed. Zayir feints to the right and then immediately ducks his head, aiming to seize the smaller stallion at the joint where the wing meets the shoulder and, with his momentum, twist Andras down toward the sand.
"Speaks" ||
swift, blazing flag of the regiment, eagle with a crest of red and gold, these men were born to drill and die.
Summary: Zayir walks into the arena, takes a trip down memory lane. Then he bows his head respectfully and launches directly into his first attack. He runs across the arena, gathering speed, where at the last few strides he uses his wings to propel himself with more speed. He feints to the right and then lunges to the left, aiming to grab Andras in his teeth at the joint of his wing.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: None
Response Deadline: June 14th
Tags: @
