AION
Like an addict drawn to his substance did he venture to the Steppe, an age-old hum settling into his bones. Body was blotted and smudged with dirt from the ground he’d been sleeping on, a crude camouflage as he weaved and bobbed through the trees. With every step he took, his heart beat faster: it was drumming loudly inside of his chest, lub-dub, lub-dubbing against his ribcage and forcing blood throughout his arteries by every pulse.
It had been so long since he’d engaged in a proper fight.
A thing he had once depended on for survival was now stale, molded over and bitter from misuse. He’d kept away from the sparring ring for so long, he wondered now—would bruised bones and bloodied knees feel the same today as they had then? He liked to think his body was still fit, but to say he'd kept up with his training would be a lie. He’d found other things (namely, another person) to fill his time with, quite literally choosing love over hate.
But in love’s absence, he was quickly beginning to revert to his old self. And what better person to take such frustrations out on than the plum-speckled monster from Solterra?
’You’re not as quiet as you like to think you are.’ Irritation pulled his sooty lips downwards, a scowl even deeper than was per usual. He did not hesitate to yield to the behemoth’s call, crawling out from the forest with his body dragging low to the ground, ears bolted against his skull. “I should have known street fighting would be your pastime,” Aion drawled. His eyes were filled with an anticipation and hunger not so different from that of a starving coyote as he looked over his opponent.
“Maybe we have more in common than I first thought.”
He was weaving around him now, mere meters away, miniature in comparison but doing his damnedest to work that to his advantage. What he lacked in size, he hoped would be made up for with speed—he’d have to, in order to keep clear of those massive, cracked hooves. Aion eyed them warily, slow to move his gaze back up Torstein's. “Although I can’t quite imagine a brute like you having much skill in the ring-”
He gave into his instincts before the sentence had finished, tone rising into a sneer as he lunged for skin. His momentum, whether he hit true or not, should carry him around Torstein’s other side: a passing strike he could only hope to land.
Hooves dug into the ground, throwing up sod without a care in the world for the treachery a single misstep could bring, for his focus had narrowed onto the purple blots staining those colossal hocks. His bloodlust was strong, nearly overriding those years of training that screamed at him, watch for the kick! For when all that mattered was the blood he wished to taste on his tongue, the flesh he sought to tear from bone—he wouldn't, couldn't afford to miss.
One way or another, he was determined to bring Torstein down.
text. talk.
headshot by rhiann
