Fight Type: battle
Prize: experience
Contact Made: yep!
Character #1: @Caine
Bonded: no
Magic: yes, dream illusion
Armor: no
Weapons: silver dagger
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 13
Character #2: @Seraphina
Bonded: no
Magic: yes, greater telekinesis
Armor: yes, leather and steel fabricated with steel arrow
Weapons: yes, enchanted sword
Current Health: 17
Current Attack: 23
Current Experience: 51
Prize: experience
Contact Made: yep!
Character #1: @Caine
Bonded: no
Magic: yes, dream illusion
Armor: no
Weapons: silver dagger
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 13
Character #2: @
Bonded: no
Magic: yes, greater telekinesis
Armor: yes, leather and steel fabricated with steel arrow
Weapons: yes, enchanted sword
Current Health: 17
Current Attack: 23
Current Experience: 51
are ye happy? (we are mighty.) are ye happy? (no. art thou?)
In Vectaeryn, they had called a storm fierce enough to rip the sails off a schooner’s mast — torn clean like Abaddon's wings — a goddess’ reckoning.
In Solterra, during the height of the wet season, they called it weather.
The wet season is not for months and months. Solterra sits at the tail end of autumn, at a time when her seas of sand should stay drier than a sun-baked bone. Few of the Solterrans Caine passes on his way to the Elatus, however, seem particularly bothered about the bizarre arrival of rain. Perhaps, he thinks, they are simply relieved it is not snow. As is he.
The last rays of scarlet dusk sulk into night by the time he steps into the looming mouth of the Colosseum. The storm’s punishing gales have eased into a dreary drizzle, yet its earlier ferocity makes clear that the evening will not be a dry one.
Caine is soaked through to the skin. His hooves clip a wet rhythm along the stone corridor snaking down towards the Colosseum’s sunken, bloodthirsty heart. Water sloughs off him in rivers, though the puddles he leaves in his wake are considerably less substantial than if he had not threaded his inky-black hair into an intricate braid of braids, running the length of his kelpie-slick neck.
A variation of Fia’s handiwork — which Caine had resolved to replicate, when he realized how efficiently it held his copious lengths of hair. Darned with yarn, not even Solterra’s version of weather can rob it of its stubborn neatness.
The arena sand holds its shape under his hooves, packed down by the rain. If nothing else, the storm has provided him with good footing. The top of the limestone-hewn behemoth opens up to the sky, and Caine cuts his gaze to the starless black, pensive, before a steady stream of water forces his lashes fluttering closed.
It is an interesting night for a spar.
Spar. His lips shape the word carefully. He is unfamiliar with it — Agenor had been overly fond of lesson and demonstration, though in practice they were more like euphemisms for punishment. The Garde did not train its assassins to fight. They trained them to avoid engagement, and armed them with just enough combat knowledge to ensure a job would be seen to its bloody end.
Survival, they left up to the whims of the gods.
Caine’s eyes squint in the poor light when he spots a silver figure moving wraithlike along the crumbling arena wall. Fia. She is here. He makes his way towards the center of the arena. Enchanted torches, their flames undeterred by the rain, cast wild shadows on the wet sand. Mounted on every other pillar, the torches provide a weak bubble of light that permeates only barely through the gray drizzle. Just enough to see a glinting hoof moments before it finds its mark.
The boy is at once grateful for the hours he has spent stumbling through the alleys half-blind under his shadow cloak.
“Charming weather tonight,” is the greeting he offers Fia when he steps up to her, along with a fleeting smile. Without hesitation, he draws his dagger out from the folds of his wings and drops it to the sand, not allowing his gaze to follow it down. No weapons, as agreed.
Just hooves and teeth and flesh and bone.
“By your move, then.” He bows neatly to her before withdrawing to his side of the arena, wings slicked tightly against his sides. Caine flexes his shoulders grimly. The sodden, heavy things will either become his kryptonite or his shields. Soon enough, he will find out.
In Solterra, during the height of the wet season, they called it weather.
The wet season is not for months and months. Solterra sits at the tail end of autumn, at a time when her seas of sand should stay drier than a sun-baked bone. Few of the Solterrans Caine passes on his way to the Elatus, however, seem particularly bothered about the bizarre arrival of rain. Perhaps, he thinks, they are simply relieved it is not snow. As is he.
The last rays of scarlet dusk sulk into night by the time he steps into the looming mouth of the Colosseum. The storm’s punishing gales have eased into a dreary drizzle, yet its earlier ferocity makes clear that the evening will not be a dry one.
Caine is soaked through to the skin. His hooves clip a wet rhythm along the stone corridor snaking down towards the Colosseum’s sunken, bloodthirsty heart. Water sloughs off him in rivers, though the puddles he leaves in his wake are considerably less substantial than if he had not threaded his inky-black hair into an intricate braid of braids, running the length of his kelpie-slick neck.
A variation of Fia’s handiwork — which Caine had resolved to replicate, when he realized how efficiently it held his copious lengths of hair. Darned with yarn, not even Solterra’s version of weather can rob it of its stubborn neatness.
The arena sand holds its shape under his hooves, packed down by the rain. If nothing else, the storm has provided him with good footing. The top of the limestone-hewn behemoth opens up to the sky, and Caine cuts his gaze to the starless black, pensive, before a steady stream of water forces his lashes fluttering closed.
It is an interesting night for a spar.
Spar. His lips shape the word carefully. He is unfamiliar with it — Agenor had been overly fond of lesson and demonstration, though in practice they were more like euphemisms for punishment. The Garde did not train its assassins to fight. They trained them to avoid engagement, and armed them with just enough combat knowledge to ensure a job would be seen to its bloody end.
Survival, they left up to the whims of the gods.
Caine’s eyes squint in the poor light when he spots a silver figure moving wraithlike along the crumbling arena wall. Fia. She is here. He makes his way towards the center of the arena. Enchanted torches, their flames undeterred by the rain, cast wild shadows on the wet sand. Mounted on every other pillar, the torches provide a weak bubble of light that permeates only barely through the gray drizzle. Just enough to see a glinting hoof moments before it finds its mark.
The boy is at once grateful for the hours he has spent stumbling through the alleys half-blind under his shadow cloak.
“Charming weather tonight,” is the greeting he offers Fia when he steps up to her, along with a fleeting smile. Without hesitation, he draws his dagger out from the folds of his wings and drops it to the sand, not allowing his gaze to follow it down. No weapons, as agreed.
Just hooves and teeth and flesh and bone.
“By your move, then.” He bows neatly to her before withdrawing to his side of the arena, wings slicked tightly against his sides. Caine flexes his shoulders grimly. The sodden, heavy things will either become his kryptonite or his shields. Soon enough, he will find out.
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: nothing like a sudden rain shower to spice things up
Summary: Caine muses about the terrible weather among other things, and arrives at the Colosseum soaked to the skin. He scans the terrain and considers the various conditions that could affect the spar. He then sees Seraphina, greets her, and moves to his side of the arena to await her move.
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 9
Tags: @Seraphina, @Sid, @inkbone, @Sparrow, @nestle, @aimless
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: none
Response Deadline: May 9
Tags: @
