and horror in the halls of stone
She is young.
Too young, many would say. The soft, gently sloping planes of her face suggest youth but her keen golden eyes (three of them, he realizes with an inner thrill) do not match the girlishness of her slight, graceful figure. He admires her curiously; no hint of fear lingers in her bold gaze. In fact, he does not see anything that might suggest what she is thinking or feeling. He can only guess.
She is young, or so they may say. Jahin remembers his first battle as distinctly as he can smell his own sweat beading his dust-stained skin. He was not yet a year old. His mother was already gone; bones picked clean by vultures, scattered by the howling wind, and bleached by the sun because the desert and the Davke do not forgive, not even their own.
He remembers the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth from biting his own tongue--so hard--in the hope that the pain would overwhelm the shadow of fear in his heart. He remembers struggling to hold back an onslaught of tears; he remembers everything, even now, years and years later as a grown man standing in the vast arena of Solterra's Colosseum. The Davke pit their youth against each other--survival of the fittest. But Jahin knows he wasn’t the fittest, strongest, fastest, or the most talented. He only survived the Davke because there was no other choice. Survival was the only option, even when that didn’t seem possible.
So Jahin is not entirely surprised that a young girl with three fearless eyes faces him across the Colosseum today. Do you have something to prove? he wonders, bowing in return as she dips her head in greeting to him. Or do you hope to feel something, anything? I can relate. The pain had been the only thing that had mattered to Jahin when he had been young, scared, and alone. The pain from every blow, every battle, every trial meant he was alive. It meant he might make it another day; it meant he might become something--someone--he could not otherwise be.
Most would underestimate her but Jahin knows better. Many underestimated him, too. Ultimately, that is why he has survived this long and they have not. To be unassuming and underwhelming an be one's greatest, unexpected weapon.
She is fast, almost too fast. He is ready and light on his hooves but she has the deadly speed of a young viper lashing out and she does so without warning and without any theatrics.
He hears the whistle of the hurlbat slicing through the air and is momentarily blinded by the metal flashing in the sun. Sahar hisses, coiling in his hair in an agitated manner. He reacts instinctually, almost in the same heartbeat in which the three-eyed girl sends the deadly hurlbat spinning his way but his reaction is just that--a reaction. A hair’s breadth behind and he pays dearly for being the reactor instead of the attacker. The razor sharp hurlbat slices his shoulder open and whistles on by (only to come spinning back through the air moments later, returning eagerly like a loyal dog to its master). So much for his hope of her weapon lodging uselessly out of reach into the soft sand some yards away. She gives the screaming crowd what they demand--blood flows from his wound like spilled wine from a goblet.
Jahin grits his teeth and bites his tongue until the familiar metallic taste floods his mouth. Adrenaline surges in his veins, sending every cell in his body a single message: survive. Despite the ugly flesh wound, Jahin has been mildly rewarded by not discounting the woman-child (she is neither girl nor woman, but lingering unhurriedly somewhere in between, much like the transition from winter to the tentative bloom of spring). He’ll need stitches. That’ll leave a mark, he thinks, grimacing as he flexes the muscle in his shoulder. The loss of blood pouring from the wound and pooling onto the hot sand makes him slightly light headed but when he tests the muscle it springs taut to attention, like a well-trained soldier. My turn.
He swings his spear down from his back, holding it lightly in his grasp as she darts lithely around his side. Every muscle in his body ripples over bone like water over river stones. He blinks slowly, allowing himself to sink into the haze of battle, instinct, and raw physicality. It has begun. They are like two cobras dancing in the sand, both wielding the advantage of weapons that are meant to distance the user from the fight. His spear is simple but made with fine craftsmanship. While her hurlbat is fast and dangerous, he is considerably relieved that she doesn’t have a shield where the reach of his spear could be rendered largely ineffective or even shattered.
He moves with the practiced, easy grace of a feline--wielding the spear lightly, cloven hooves hardly brushing the ground as he whirls in the sand, lashing out with with the spear in a smooth, fluid movement towards her vulnerable, exposed flank as she tries to dart around him. His attack is fast, precise, and unexaggerated. Too much unnecessary frenzied, stabbing motions of a long spear only exhausts the user prematurely. Not to mention, sticking your spear in someone is much easier done than pulling said spear out again.
Rather than trying to impale her like a stuck pig, like most novice spear fighters, he keeps a light handle on his spear and strikes in a flashing, slicing motion, intending to rend open her flank in a long gash (similar to the one she dealt him) before whirling out of reach to assume a defensive position, spear-tip poised carefully towards her. Sahar uncoils from his mane and winds down his leg until she hits the sand. The albino snake slithers around, facing opposite Jahin and their opponent positioned in the middle. Davke warrior and King Cobra are coiled taut like a spring, ready for action. Who will the three-eyed girl-woman choose?
He hopes, as young as she is, that she might be a hot-head--Solis knows I was. Jahin plays the long game. He’s patient and unperturbed, despite the blood pulsing onto the sand like a red river. His shoulder hurts but the pain is familiar and he welcomes it like an old friend.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
Too young, many would say. The soft, gently sloping planes of her face suggest youth but her keen golden eyes (three of them, he realizes with an inner thrill) do not match the girlishness of her slight, graceful figure. He admires her curiously; no hint of fear lingers in her bold gaze. In fact, he does not see anything that might suggest what she is thinking or feeling. He can only guess.
She is young, or so they may say. Jahin remembers his first battle as distinctly as he can smell his own sweat beading his dust-stained skin. He was not yet a year old. His mother was already gone; bones picked clean by vultures, scattered by the howling wind, and bleached by the sun because the desert and the Davke do not forgive, not even their own.
He remembers the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth from biting his own tongue--so hard--in the hope that the pain would overwhelm the shadow of fear in his heart. He remembers struggling to hold back an onslaught of tears; he remembers everything, even now, years and years later as a grown man standing in the vast arena of Solterra's Colosseum. The Davke pit their youth against each other--survival of the fittest. But Jahin knows he wasn’t the fittest, strongest, fastest, or the most talented. He only survived the Davke because there was no other choice. Survival was the only option, even when that didn’t seem possible.
So Jahin is not entirely surprised that a young girl with three fearless eyes faces him across the Colosseum today. Do you have something to prove? he wonders, bowing in return as she dips her head in greeting to him. Or do you hope to feel something, anything? I can relate. The pain had been the only thing that had mattered to Jahin when he had been young, scared, and alone. The pain from every blow, every battle, every trial meant he was alive. It meant he might make it another day; it meant he might become something--someone--he could not otherwise be.
Most would underestimate her but Jahin knows better. Many underestimated him, too. Ultimately, that is why he has survived this long and they have not. To be unassuming and underwhelming an be one's greatest, unexpected weapon.
She is fast, almost too fast. He is ready and light on his hooves but she has the deadly speed of a young viper lashing out and she does so without warning and without any theatrics.
He hears the whistle of the hurlbat slicing through the air and is momentarily blinded by the metal flashing in the sun. Sahar hisses, coiling in his hair in an agitated manner. He reacts instinctually, almost in the same heartbeat in which the three-eyed girl sends the deadly hurlbat spinning his way but his reaction is just that--a reaction. A hair’s breadth behind and he pays dearly for being the reactor instead of the attacker. The razor sharp hurlbat slices his shoulder open and whistles on by (only to come spinning back through the air moments later, returning eagerly like a loyal dog to its master). So much for his hope of her weapon lodging uselessly out of reach into the soft sand some yards away. She gives the screaming crowd what they demand--blood flows from his wound like spilled wine from a goblet.
Jahin grits his teeth and bites his tongue until the familiar metallic taste floods his mouth. Adrenaline surges in his veins, sending every cell in his body a single message: survive. Despite the ugly flesh wound, Jahin has been mildly rewarded by not discounting the woman-child (she is neither girl nor woman, but lingering unhurriedly somewhere in between, much like the transition from winter to the tentative bloom of spring). He’ll need stitches. That’ll leave a mark, he thinks, grimacing as he flexes the muscle in his shoulder. The loss of blood pouring from the wound and pooling onto the hot sand makes him slightly light headed but when he tests the muscle it springs taut to attention, like a well-trained soldier. My turn.
He swings his spear down from his back, holding it lightly in his grasp as she darts lithely around his side. Every muscle in his body ripples over bone like water over river stones. He blinks slowly, allowing himself to sink into the haze of battle, instinct, and raw physicality. It has begun. They are like two cobras dancing in the sand, both wielding the advantage of weapons that are meant to distance the user from the fight. His spear is simple but made with fine craftsmanship. While her hurlbat is fast and dangerous, he is considerably relieved that she doesn’t have a shield where the reach of his spear could be rendered largely ineffective or even shattered.
He moves with the practiced, easy grace of a feline--wielding the spear lightly, cloven hooves hardly brushing the ground as he whirls in the sand, lashing out with with the spear in a smooth, fluid movement towards her vulnerable, exposed flank as she tries to dart around him. His attack is fast, precise, and unexaggerated. Too much unnecessary frenzied, stabbing motions of a long spear only exhausts the user prematurely. Not to mention, sticking your spear in someone is much easier done than pulling said spear out again.
Rather than trying to impale her like a stuck pig, like most novice spear fighters, he keeps a light handle on his spear and strikes in a flashing, slicing motion, intending to rend open her flank in a long gash (similar to the one she dealt him) before whirling out of reach to assume a defensive position, spear-tip poised carefully towards her. Sahar uncoils from his mane and winds down his leg until she hits the sand. The albino snake slithers around, facing opposite Jahin and their opponent positioned in the middle. Davke warrior and King Cobra are coiled taut like a spring, ready for action. Who will the three-eyed girl-woman choose?
He hopes, as young as she is, that she might be a hot-head--Solis knows I was. Jahin plays the long game. He’s patient and unperturbed, despite the blood pulsing onto the sand like a red river. His shoulder hurts but the pain is familiar and he welcomes it like an old friend.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@
Summary: Apolonia's hurlbat slices open his shoulder. The muscle seems to be unharmed but the wound is bleeding heavily. When Apolonia darts around his side, he reacts by attacking her in a swift, slicing motion with his spear, aiming to lay open her flank as she passes by. He repositions defensively and Sahar positions herself opposite Jahin, with Apolonia in the middle.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Item(s) Used: SPEAR
Response Deadline: 6/16
Tags: @Apolonia, @Sid, @inkbone, @Layla, @nestle, @aimless
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Item(s) Used: SPEAR
Response Deadline: 6/16
Tags: @
