like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
A week has settled her no more than a raindrop settles the hunger of a parched desert bloom.
A week has only seen her restlessness grow into a hunger, her violence into a holocaust. The stands are alive with all the dark sins inching down her spine like roots. Each bellow is a drop of rain and each cheer becomes a black cloud keeping the sun from her wings. She is a storm, a hurricane, and an apocalypse by the time her next match is called.
She is..
Oh she is nothing more than magic, hot-blooded and feral.
The old wounds are nothing more than gentle aches (like teeth instead of kisses in the midnight hour). Her missing feathers are forgotten wishes and the scrapes down her neck faded lines of a map leading to the underworld. Amaunet has victory in her eyes when she enters the ring and hell in the violent ache of her galloping heart.
She does not gallop a loop or stand still as a broken statute (and if it's not broken it will be, oh it will be). Like a snow griffin she takes to the skies into a flurry of feathers, sleek sinew, and bared teeth. A glow blooms across her skin as her magic wakes with all the rabid hunger of a bear at the end of winter.
Her flight starts as a lazy circle high above the Colosseum. It is wide and slow enough that he'd have to move to keep a constant watch on her. Slowly (slow enough that the nobles in the crowd protest in classless insults) she gathers speed, and speed, and more speed.
The glow on her skin brightens enough that her teeth shine like stars in the black sneer of her dark lips. She settles her gaze on the lion, picking the more dangerous of the two to focus her attack on (what is a horse to her, but another bit of flesh to conquer?). Her feathers dance and quicken at her side as she dives. Her magic feeds her fury, and eats the ravenous wrath of the crowd, until she's more stone falling than hawk diving towards a hare in the grass.
Amaunet aims for the lion, her legs galloping beneath her form, with the intent to gallop a line of agony across the backs of the earth-bound hares. But if they move towards her, or leap towards her as she falls--
There is always a pathway through to go as well.
@El Toro
A week has only seen her restlessness grow into a hunger, her violence into a holocaust. The stands are alive with all the dark sins inching down her spine like roots. Each bellow is a drop of rain and each cheer becomes a black cloud keeping the sun from her wings. She is a storm, a hurricane, and an apocalypse by the time her next match is called.
She is..
Oh she is nothing more than magic, hot-blooded and feral.
The old wounds are nothing more than gentle aches (like teeth instead of kisses in the midnight hour). Her missing feathers are forgotten wishes and the scrapes down her neck faded lines of a map leading to the underworld. Amaunet has victory in her eyes when she enters the ring and hell in the violent ache of her galloping heart.
She does not gallop a loop or stand still as a broken statute (and if it's not broken it will be, oh it will be). Like a snow griffin she takes to the skies into a flurry of feathers, sleek sinew, and bared teeth. A glow blooms across her skin as her magic wakes with all the rabid hunger of a bear at the end of winter.
Her flight starts as a lazy circle high above the Colosseum. It is wide and slow enough that he'd have to move to keep a constant watch on her. Slowly (slow enough that the nobles in the crowd protest in classless insults) she gathers speed, and speed, and more speed.
The glow on her skin brightens enough that her teeth shine like stars in the black sneer of her dark lips. She settles her gaze on the lion, picking the more dangerous of the two to focus her attack on (what is a horse to her, but another bit of flesh to conquer?). Her feathers dance and quicken at her side as she dives. Her magic feeds her fury, and eats the ravenous wrath of the crowd, until she's more stone falling than hawk diving towards a hare in the grass.
Amaunet aims for the lion, her legs galloping beneath her form, with the intent to gallop a line of agony across the backs of the earth-bound hares. But if they move towards her, or leap towards her as she falls--
There is always a pathway through to go as well.
@El Toro
Summary:Amaunet enters the ring calmly before taking flight (her training as a desert warrior coming to her aid). She starts by flying slowly and high enough that it would be impossible to keep in her constant eye sight without moving. She gathers speed slow enough that the crowd grows impatient and starts to grow restless. She uses this and her own natural anger to fuel her magic until her glow grows brighter and her magic turns her attack into one that will carry the force of a horse much larger than her. She aims for the lion, diving towards them both at an angle with her legs running in a gallop. She is aiming to run across their backs (leaving aches and blood in her wake, and possibly throw them off balance). But with her magic fueling her there is always the chance she will go through instead.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: Her chaos magic.
Response Deadline: Whenever <3
Tags: @El Toro, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @layla
