Fight Type: battle
Prize: satisfaction (exp)
Contact Made: yes!
Character #1: @ipomoea
Bonded: yes - fantasy deer
Magic: yes - nature spirit
Armor: no
Weapons: yes - enchanted thing? can change shape
Current Health: 60
Current Attack: 60
Current Experience: 111
Character #2: @Elena
Bonded: no
Magic: yes - empathy
Armor: no
Weapons: no
Current Health: 34
Current Attack: 26
Current Experience: 52
Prize: satisfaction (exp)
Contact Made: yes!
Character #1: @ipomoea
Bonded: yes - fantasy deer
Magic: yes - nature spirit
Armor: no
Weapons: yes - enchanted thing? can change shape
Current Health: 60
Current Attack: 60
Current Experience: 111
Character #2: @
Bonded: no
Magic: yes - empathy
Armor: no
Weapons: no
Current Health: 34
Current Attack: 26
Current Experience: 52
The Steppe looks surprisingly like Illuster in the winter. When the pock-marked ground is hidden beneath a layer of white, he supposes it doesn’t matter what lies underneath. It all looks the same from above.
But as he stands there ankle-deep in the snow, he can feel the roots lying frozen beneath. He can hear the echoes of blood and bones and the violence of flesh against flesh in them. He can taste the iron already, and with each breath he can feel the way his lungs are blooming, and his heart is turning into a blood-red poppy. The edges of it are trembling, each chamber a petal that flutters like something fragile that wants nothing more than to become something wild. It all makes the magic in his blood begin to sing sweetly in response.
It’s still singing when he sees the golden figure appear on the other side of the field.
“Elena,” he calls out to her, already moving through the snow. There’s a bundle of winter-flowers in his telekinesis that floats alongside him, their colors bright and joyful against the colorless landscape that surrounds them. “I didn’t know you were one for sparring.” There’s a smile in his voice that he hopes she can hear. And when he crosses the field and brushes his nose against her shoulder with a tenderness he thought he had forgotten, it almost —
it almost touches his eyes.
He is not sure he will ever relearn how to smile the way she does. He is too hard now, his edges too jagged and uneven to remember how to be so gentle as that. There is that darkness in his eyes that has passed the point of innocence and softness, a part of him that will never be able to look at a fresh blanket of snow without remembering the way still-warm blood looks overtop of it. All his pieces are broken apart now, and the only music he knows is the sound the wind makes whistling between them.
But there is an almost-melody in his steps when he offers her his winter-flowers. And he wants to be a thousand things other than broken and bloodied, to have a bit of the sunlight she brings with her filling the cracks of him.
So he pulls his wings in close, and spares one final glance to the meadows and the forests that lie behind him. The sun is watching them from behind a thin veil of clouds, unable to look away from the scene about to unfold. There is only one reason anyone comes to the Steppe and oh, it knows.
“Shall we?”
From a safe distance away Ipomoea gestures at the space separating them. With the flowers laid safely aside and the song of his magic and his blood beginning to rise in pitch, he is ready.
But as he stands there ankle-deep in the snow, he can feel the roots lying frozen beneath. He can hear the echoes of blood and bones and the violence of flesh against flesh in them. He can taste the iron already, and with each breath he can feel the way his lungs are blooming, and his heart is turning into a blood-red poppy. The edges of it are trembling, each chamber a petal that flutters like something fragile that wants nothing more than to become something wild. It all makes the magic in his blood begin to sing sweetly in response.
It’s still singing when he sees the golden figure appear on the other side of the field.
“Elena,” he calls out to her, already moving through the snow. There’s a bundle of winter-flowers in his telekinesis that floats alongside him, their colors bright and joyful against the colorless landscape that surrounds them. “I didn’t know you were one for sparring.” There’s a smile in his voice that he hopes she can hear. And when he crosses the field and brushes his nose against her shoulder with a tenderness he thought he had forgotten, it almost —
it almost touches his eyes.
He is not sure he will ever relearn how to smile the way she does. He is too hard now, his edges too jagged and uneven to remember how to be so gentle as that. There is that darkness in his eyes that has passed the point of innocence and softness, a part of him that will never be able to look at a fresh blanket of snow without remembering the way still-warm blood looks overtop of it. All his pieces are broken apart now, and the only music he knows is the sound the wind makes whistling between them.
But there is an almost-melody in his steps when he offers her his winter-flowers. And he wants to be a thousand things other than broken and bloodied, to have a bit of the sunlight she brings with her filling the cracks of him.
So he pulls his wings in close, and spares one final glance to the meadows and the forests that lie behind him. The sun is watching them from behind a thin veil of clouds, unable to look away from the scene about to unfold. There is only one reason anyone comes to the Steppe and oh, it knows.
“Shall we?”
From a safe distance away Ipomoea gestures at the space separating them. With the flowers laid safely aside and the song of his magic and his blood beginning to rise in pitch, he is ready.
@
”here am i!“
Summary: Po walked into the field and waited for Elena. When he saw her he gave her some flowers then backed away to give her the first attack.
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: 09/03/20 (but flexible!! we discussed lax deadlines beforehand.)
Tags: @Elena, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @layla
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: 09/03/20 (but flexible!! we discussed lax deadlines beforehand.)
Tags: @
