Asterion This is what he pictured, when he thought of battle: a unicorn, black and silver, flinging itself into the fray with a cry like the tolling of some great and terrible bell. A horn as fine and sharp as a rapier, each strike like lightning against a fearsome and deserving foe. He had never pictured a girl the color of a summer morning, charging at him with flowers trailing behind her. But here she is: hooves a tattoo on the half-frozen ground, wings tucked (these creatures with their wings and horns; how had he ever thought he might be a man made for war?), the look in her eye as wild as his own. Surely she wouldn’t really hurt him. She is close. Five lengths away – three – his brain is crying at him to act but his feet keep stupidly planted until she’s so close their shadows meet. Only then does he move, lifting his heels in a little crow-hop. Between his hand of height over her and the added upward movement of his kick, her shoulder misses its intended target, her bulk pressing instead against his left haunch and knocking his trajectory askew. The bay huffs a breath at the impact as he lands on the hard-packed earth, stumbling once before pivoting after her as her wing brushes by his side. Not so bad, he thinks, gaze searching for her as she dances clear, and then she speaks. Normally her question would have been met with a moon-eyed stare but now his ears only lay back as he bounds after her, adrenaline finally settling in to something that feels useful. “What?” he manages, distracted and wondering if the throb of his hindquarters was something more serious than the temporary smart of a blow. It is strange, knowing little of warrior-Aislinn and only of fireflies-laughing-wine-scented-Aislinn, to picture her in this moment, but at least the thought of her doesn’t shame him the way the thought of his unicorn does. It still puts a little more desire in his muscles when he bounds for her, flinging his forehooves toward the area of her chest and shoulders, even while he prays not to hit her face. His breath is a bit ragged when he lands again, but he still manages to reply even as he puts his weight back on his hindquarters and eyes her for a rebuttal. “I thought I was dead when I saw her,” he pants, not noticing how terribly melodramatic it sounds. He’d been fresh out of the rift, utterly alone; as far as he is concerned it’s quite true. Asterion does not think this is the time for such talk, but as he begins to circle her his tongue has other ideas. “And you’re one to talk!” he says between long draws of cold air. “You never told me you had a … a king." There is more confusion on the word than vitriol; the dreamer is still dazed by the whole state of affairs. No, this isn’t how he’d pictured a fight at all. |
Summary: Asterion crow-hops during her shove,
missing the brunt of it though it knocks him slightly off-balance. Mildly bewildered, he rears and strikes for her chest before beginning to defensively circle her. He finds her line of questioning as discomfiting as the physical aspects of the battle.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: NA
Response Deadline: Nov. 6, 2017
Tags: @
