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The heat of the battle was a constant flux of energy and exhaustion, a dance that came to life in a flurry, rapid in its descent back to earth. And yet, while movements fell swift as the hammer upon raw ore, while the heat scorching their veins, bringing aches to their muscles as quick as their jolting powers writhed against each other, time seemed to slow to eternity, seconds lasting hours in the brain of the clashing warriors. It was almost a mockery, forcing their eyes to watch as danger came upon them, near helpless to do anything to stop the pain, the sores to come; a mind that was far to powerful for the body to obey. Arion may be testing the young stallion now, may be drawing the inner sparks to a raging fire beneath the drenching of sea water, but he wouldn't do it in a way that was lethal. Like a muscle, power, wisdom, and experience were always growing when stretched, swelling to contain the lives of those who led them. But when left to fatique, to atrophy from maluse, that strength that mighty jousters took pride in, that knowledge that learned caretakers found purpose in, it wo would fade to dust. He had created that distance for a reason, stretching out those seconds so the other could respond. Besides, what was a fight if the opponent didn't give it their all?
The air was alive with the heat of their bodies, the gasps of their breathes falling like gales from flared nostrils. The length of his tail spilt behind him like a useless tether, drawn and cast to whip to the side with the force of his body colliding with the other. Finnian was a dancer, a lithe little thing with the flexibility of menait, the silken spearwives. They had never been strong, the delicacy in their blood making limbs slender, and weight meager. Yet, they were as serpents in the desert sands, sliding about. His eyes drank in the flex of the fellow stallions spine, the arch and curve as his body fell to the side, his hind quarters spining around, his tail a dark cloud plumming about taunt thighs. He saw the red mark, bright yet dark against his sandy hide, a scrap that would irritate the muscle below. He watched, as those legs, free from gravity, that long back curving as the weight forced shoulders to arch and hooves to dig into the packed soil, lashed out, heading towards his chest.
Part instinct, part purposeful, Arion's head tilted towards the left, tucking towards his chest, drawn by the force of his tusk grazing along the other's hip. Offset, imbalances by the pull, he reset his stance, his hind legs sidestepping to the right, pivoting his chest, leaving only empty space where those hooves would strike. Right into the region of his tusks embrace. "I DON'T EAT ASS," he jibbed, exhilarated and amused by the other's antics.
SPEAK | THOUGHT
The air was alive with the heat of their bodies, the gasps of their breathes falling like gales from flared nostrils. The length of his tail spilt behind him like a useless tether, drawn and cast to whip to the side with the force of his body colliding with the other. Finnian was a dancer, a lithe little thing with the flexibility of menait, the silken spearwives. They had never been strong, the delicacy in their blood making limbs slender, and weight meager. Yet, they were as serpents in the desert sands, sliding about. His eyes drank in the flex of the fellow stallions spine, the arch and curve as his body fell to the side, his hind quarters spining around, his tail a dark cloud plumming about taunt thighs. He saw the red mark, bright yet dark against his sandy hide, a scrap that would irritate the muscle below. He watched, as those legs, free from gravity, that long back curving as the weight forced shoulders to arch and hooves to dig into the packed soil, lashed out, heading towards his chest.
Part instinct, part purposeful, Arion's head tilted towards the left, tucking towards his chest, drawn by the force of his tusk grazing along the other's hip. Offset, imbalances by the pull, he reset his stance, his hind legs sidestepping to the right, pivoting his chest, leaving only empty space where those hooves would strike. Right into the region of his tusks embrace. "I DON'T EAT ASS," he jibbed, exhilarated and amused by the other's antics.
Summary: WITH HIS TUSKS COLLIDING WITH FINNIAN'S HIP, HIS HEAD IS DRAWN TO LEFT, CAUSING HIS BODY TO SWING TO THE RIGHT AS HE ATTEMPTS TO REGAIN HIS EQUILIBRIUM, ALLOWING HIS CHEST TO MOVE OUT OF THE WAY OF THW STRIKING HOOVES. THE ANGLE OF HIS HEAD LEAVES THE CHANCE ONE OR BOTH OF FINNIAN'S HOOVES TO FALL INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN HIS TUSKS, RISKING TRIPPING.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 1
Block(s) Left: 0
Item(s) Used: 0
Response Deadline: SEPTEMBER 4, 2017
Tags: @Finnian @inkbone @Sid @kay
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 1
Block(s) Left: 0
Item(s) Used: 0
Response Deadline: SEPTEMBER 4, 2017
Tags: @Finnian @inkbone @Sid @
