warbird,
There is a red-raw gash on her right shoulder where she traded a glancing blow from her opponent for the opportunity to sink her teeth into their flesh and grip their windpipe. Taller than them, stronger than them, she wedged the point of her left shoulder into where neck met shoulder met arm, twisting her chin and under-jaw up and away in a vicious tearing maneuver. She threw all her weight into her side body, wings thrust out for support, and by the strength of her neck, whipped her opponent around in front of her and then to the ground.
She held them there, now, with one hoof pressed sidelong over the critical pulse point along their jugular line. Their neck was a mess of blood and teeth marks; their chest heaved and fell with great effort. Their mouth begins to move with fearful babbling as they yield, they yield, they yield.
Warbird relents, immediately. She removes her hold on the prostrate creature and backs away, keeping eyes on them at all times (only a foolish fighter turns their back on their enemy, defeated or not). It was only when their opponent had staggered to their feet and limped away, out of site, did Warbird settle in to take stock. It was a decently fought battle, but their opponent was unprepared for an adversary her size to also be so quick. Warbird’s breath was even, her muscles exerted a comfortable amount; nothing she was unused to.
Stykkislange sniffed at the shallow wound on her shoulder. She plunged her serpentine tongue into it to measure it’s depth. Deeming it not life-threatening, she slithered back to the pile of black armor her master had left her in charge of.
you take this armor with you everywhere you go, Stykki said, tone verging on moaning complaint, and it is heavy and you make me carry it. why do you not wear it when you fight?
“Because I so love listening to you whine about it,” Warbird said, inspecting the armor in question for any mark or scratch. Radogrid had not raised a slouch. “It is a poor warrior who relies on their armor for a training battle.”
but why do you make me carry it? Stykki wheedled, full-on whinging now.
“You must serve some purpose other than complaining?” Warbird fixed her in a stern stare and the seven-foot long serpent hissed moreosely and went to flailing on the ground, like a hognose snake in the throws of it’s fake death knell.
She leaves Stykki to her temper tantrum and goes in search of water; she follows the sounds of a nearby stream where she finds, to her surprise, another creature drinking there: a great, hulking beast of slate and stripes, adorned with a blackened horn run through with streaks of lightning-blue.
His sides heave less and less with each moment, suggesting to Warbird he has also just emerged victorious from his own fight. She meets his one, striking eye with her own blood-red orbs and gives him a strong nod, before dipping her own head to drink.
She keeps one eye on this stranger at all times.
