like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
She falls into the heady thrill of blood-lust like a stone rolling down a hill. It washes over her in waves as she tastes the fermented copper of his blood. It drags her into the belly of it when she feels his muscles tremble beneath the furious weight of hers.
Amaunet wants more, and more, and more. She descends fully into that black belly of the beast, and the bottom of her violence, when she feels him rise (like a lion, like a stag, like a thing knowing it's going to die) against her attack. Her bones quiver under the weight of him, and her wings snap and curl like claws instead of feathers as she seeks any purchase at all against him. The glow on her skin turns to a flush, all dewdrop gold instead of sun-golden.
The crowd feels like something dense, and deep, and more shadow than form, around them. Their roar turns dull in her ears as he lunges for her wing joint. Every inch of her focus narrows again. This time she is all prey animal, all sparrow in the air, when she rears back out of his reach. Her wings thrust forwards to help her lunge backward. The movement is still a chaotic tangle of feathers, legs, and muscles screaming abuse (they are too close for it to be more graceful than desperate).
But the intent behind it, one she knows from years of fighting in the pits, infuriates her. Wrath rises instead of caution.
And even as she feels his teeth latch on to the muscle just below her wing joint, and feels his push and drag against her like a noose, she hardly feels anything but the battle-cry echoing on her lips when she screams. Her brassy cry rings in the now almost-silent crowd. Most of them know enough of her, and enough of the pits, to know that it's a death-knell of a song.
Amaunet rides the adrenaline wave, as she leans into this new point of contact between them. The tug of his teeth makes pushing that wing against him painful. Instinctively she leans away from the tug of pain (later it will be near crippling). But even as she tries to pull the soft point of her shoulder out of his hold, she swings her teeth towards the fleshy curl of his crest (or if he pulls way as she hope it'll be an eye that she aims for). Her hooves slid into to the sand as she seeks purchase for her attack and she tries not to blink hard against the sting of the sand rising up around them in furious clouds.
Belatedly she wonders if her blood tasted of fermented copper and iron as his did. Or did she taste like war, and fury, and all the things that will leave him stained in the wake of her?
@Dune
Amaunet wants more, and more, and more. She descends fully into that black belly of the beast, and the bottom of her violence, when she feels him rise (like a lion, like a stag, like a thing knowing it's going to die) against her attack. Her bones quiver under the weight of him, and her wings snap and curl like claws instead of feathers as she seeks any purchase at all against him. The glow on her skin turns to a flush, all dewdrop gold instead of sun-golden.
The crowd feels like something dense, and deep, and more shadow than form, around them. Their roar turns dull in her ears as he lunges for her wing joint. Every inch of her focus narrows again. This time she is all prey animal, all sparrow in the air, when she rears back out of his reach. Her wings thrust forwards to help her lunge backward. The movement is still a chaotic tangle of feathers, legs, and muscles screaming abuse (they are too close for it to be more graceful than desperate).
But the intent behind it, one she knows from years of fighting in the pits, infuriates her. Wrath rises instead of caution.
And even as she feels his teeth latch on to the muscle just below her wing joint, and feels his push and drag against her like a noose, she hardly feels anything but the battle-cry echoing on her lips when she screams. Her brassy cry rings in the now almost-silent crowd. Most of them know enough of her, and enough of the pits, to know that it's a death-knell of a song.
Amaunet rides the adrenaline wave, as she leans into this new point of contact between them. The tug of his teeth makes pushing that wing against him painful. Instinctively she leans away from the tug of pain (later it will be near crippling). But even as she tries to pull the soft point of her shoulder out of his hold, she swings her teeth towards the fleshy curl of his crest (or if he pulls way as she hope it'll be an eye that she aims for). Her hooves slid into to the sand as she seeks purchase for her attack and she tries not to blink hard against the sting of the sand rising up around them in furious clouds.
Belatedly she wonders if her blood tasted of fermented copper and iron as his did. Or did she taste like war, and fury, and all the things that will leave him stained in the wake of her?
@
Summary: Amaunet is surprised a bit at the fury of his counter-attack and it makes her half-rear, half-scrabble backwards less than graceful. She's pissed that he was aiming for a wing so she screams just in case he didn't notice. His teeth land just below the joint, on the softer skin and muscle. It hurts and she quickly bleeds from the grinding of his teeth (later once adrenaline settles she won't really be able to move that shoulder and wing easily if at all). In return she twists her head around and tries to sink her teeth into his crest, or his face if he pulls away). At this point she's worried less about grace and more about suffering.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: 6/20 (or whenever since you kindly gave me an extra day rae <3 )
Tags: @
