The cast of ash filled his nose, a bitter venom that had always been apart of his essence, his soul in a way that others found passion in the earth, or in the caring of others. Arion's craft was beyond the living form. In the barest of reality, there were no lives to be saved, no meaning to be found in shaping metals and polishing beautiful stones, there was no gratitude from those beyond the lusting, the ones who wished to hold fine trinkets in hand. While the healers of the Dusk court may have found his wisdom lacking in the creed of their noble court, there was always a joy to be found when the embers cooled and the engraved lines glowed hot in the vat. It was his perferred place, the forge, the silence and distant realities, where few dared come into the sanctuary that he had claimed in the belly of the citadel. It would have gone on this way perhaps, had the drowned stallion not come jaunting into his realm. Eyes of silver and mahogany turned from the flames, his sturdy hooves scrapping against stone when he turned to glimpse the other. "YOU SURVIVED I SEE," he mused, the heavy oiled drap falling from the prongs overhead, smothering the last of the gilded fire in the wood.
He wasn't sure how it ended up this way, drawn from the shadow into the light, his painted form marked gold and silver against the shine of Solis. The old halls of the capital fell way, as did scent of the humid swamps, until the first sign of the war torn earth came into view. The steppe was one the equine had come to know in the changing seasons since first he came to the world beyond the pass. It was a strange custom, to hail this land the place of conflict, its very air drenched in the scents of old blood and emotion. Even the most stoic of beings would surely wilt beneath the demand, drawn either into a stupor or burn in fever for pain, and the giving of pain. His nostrils flared, long, steady strides eating up the barren earth as he paced after the other, a streak of pale cornflower at the edge of his sights. The smith had abandoned his cloak for a time, the warmth of the fading summer doing little for the man with fire in his veins. Bronze gleamed against his tusks, the soft, hissing rattle of the chain lining his tail the only sound to acknowledge his presence.
Until Finnian finally spoke. Ears shifting against the ever-present wind, Arion gave the other a nonchalent glance, his brow rising steadily as his thoughts turned from disbelief to mirth. "WOULD YOU RATHER FIGHT IN A PAVILION OF POLISHED GOLD AND FINE COBBLE STONE? PERHAPS A YOUNG BEAUTIFUL MAID TO WIPE THE SWEAT FROM YOUR BROW AFTER A FINE BOUST? THIS IS WHERE YOU SHALL FIGHT. IF NOT, YOU SHALL NOT BETTER YOUR SKILLS AT ALL." Tossing his crown, awaiting the other to turn towards him, Arion paced out a distance from the other, his heavy hooves tearing into the moist soil. Turning, his long, corded tail swayed against his legs, until he turned to face the other. A scrutinizing glance swept over the other. "YOUR TIME HEALING HAS MADE YOU FAT," he mused, "LET'S SEE IF YOUR SKILL REMAINS." Suddenly, he was tearing forward from his stance, the earth torn free, his pace clearing the distance in five, six strides. His head turned to his side, chin anchored against his neck, only to toss to the right, making to rap his tusks sharply against the others chest, made stronger by the momentum of his body. To bleed painful welts across the buckskin hide. Arion had never been the strongest fighter; neither skilled or trained by the great warriors of the clans he had accompanied all those years. Yet, he was sturdy, made strong by the gruff strength of a smith, his neck and chest made thick with muscle, all aimed into colliding with the other now.
SPEAK | THOUGHT
He wasn't sure how it ended up this way, drawn from the shadow into the light, his painted form marked gold and silver against the shine of Solis. The old halls of the capital fell way, as did scent of the humid swamps, until the first sign of the war torn earth came into view. The steppe was one the equine had come to know in the changing seasons since first he came to the world beyond the pass. It was a strange custom, to hail this land the place of conflict, its very air drenched in the scents of old blood and emotion. Even the most stoic of beings would surely wilt beneath the demand, drawn either into a stupor or burn in fever for pain, and the giving of pain. His nostrils flared, long, steady strides eating up the barren earth as he paced after the other, a streak of pale cornflower at the edge of his sights. The smith had abandoned his cloak for a time, the warmth of the fading summer doing little for the man with fire in his veins. Bronze gleamed against his tusks, the soft, hissing rattle of the chain lining his tail the only sound to acknowledge his presence.
Until Finnian finally spoke. Ears shifting against the ever-present wind, Arion gave the other a nonchalent glance, his brow rising steadily as his thoughts turned from disbelief to mirth. "WOULD YOU RATHER FIGHT IN A PAVILION OF POLISHED GOLD AND FINE COBBLE STONE? PERHAPS A YOUNG BEAUTIFUL MAID TO WIPE THE SWEAT FROM YOUR BROW AFTER A FINE BOUST? THIS IS WHERE YOU SHALL FIGHT. IF NOT, YOU SHALL NOT BETTER YOUR SKILLS AT ALL." Tossing his crown, awaiting the other to turn towards him, Arion paced out a distance from the other, his heavy hooves tearing into the moist soil. Turning, his long, corded tail swayed against his legs, until he turned to face the other. A scrutinizing glance swept over the other. "YOUR TIME HEALING HAS MADE YOU FAT," he mused, "LET'S SEE IF YOUR SKILL REMAINS." Suddenly, he was tearing forward from his stance, the earth torn free, his pace clearing the distance in five, six strides. His head turned to his side, chin anchored against his neck, only to toss to the right, making to rap his tusks sharply against the others chest, made stronger by the momentum of his body. To bleed painful welts across the buckskin hide. Arion had never been the strongest fighter; neither skilled or trained by the great warriors of the clans he had accompanied all those years. Yet, he was sturdy, made strong by the gruff strength of a smith, his neck and chest made thick with muscle, all aimed into colliding with the other now.
Summary: ARION SET UP A DISTANCE OF ABOUT SIX PACES BETWEEN HIM AND FINNIAN BEFORE INITATING A SPAR. CHARGED THE OTHER AND USING HIS MOMENTUM AND BODY WEIGHT TO RAP HIS OPPONENTS CHEST WITH THE SIDE OF HIS TUSK BY TOSSING HIS HEAD (AT ADDITIONAL RISK FOR BEING SCRAPPED BY THE BROKEN REMANENTS OF HIS HORN)
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: 0
Response Deadline: AUGUST 30, 2017
Tags: @Finnian @inkbone @Sid @kay
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: 0
Response Deadline: AUGUST 30, 2017
Tags: @Finnian @inkbone @Sid @
