You do not fear me as I should be feared
His cry rang in the silence of the steppe, the notes and song of challenge fading into the wind like vapor before the early morning sun. There was no taste of fear on his tongue as he pawed the earth, there was only the ringing of vengeance like a demon in his ear and the pulse of battle surging through his veins. He had withered in his sleep, lost the precious muscle he had once held for granted, a spy made warrior by sheer virtue of his assignment, for although he had entered that long-forgotten military a spy, he had left it as much a soldier as any other that he had stood with upon the battlefield. He had shed blood and rent flesh, and although he had lost most of his honed mass, so lingered the memory of battles long past. He did not reign in his wrath but neither did he let it roam rampant through his being, he burned it like fuel for his body, energy coursing through his veins until every breath heaved with tension, the red of his nostrils flaring like fresh blood.
Then, lo, his rival had come.
He cared not for her appearance, for her lack of horn or wing. He cared not she bore no weapon. He cared that she had answered his call, that the clever girl had taken the high ground, that what he wanted- no, what he needed was soon to be upon him. Eyes of wrath, glazed like a corpse dragged back to life, rolled to regard her with searing intensity, his ebony body held still and languid, the tension of a hunter who has been spotted, who debates whether to spring to action or wait once more. Her words sang through the air, although he did not answer her in kind, merely flashed a feral grin of white teeth as she charged towards him. Weight shifted, rolling as the stag leaned back onto his hips. Muscles quivered, breath drew tight, heart pounding with every thunderous roar of her hooves.
And then... she tripped.
It was just a feint, but the comical appearance of it is enough to jerk his head high, a derisive huff of air from his nostrils, and he twitched into action as she set upon him. That weight he had prepared to meet her charge with became hindrance, and he clumsily flung himself to the side, sacrificing the position he had chosen. A squeal of pain tore from him as twin trails of fire lashed his barrel rather than his chest, red blood flashing beautifully, bright against dark skin, the first blood was her triumph. The rage pulsed at this, threatening to take command, but the raven knew better as his razor-edged mind swiftly turned, the half-breath of span between the impact of her hooves and his body pulling away enough time for him to create a plan. Swiftly he half-reared, shoulder low and haunches coiled, ears flat and crown of antlers ripping into the sky, but he did not lash her descent with hoof or tooth. They were of equal stature, or close enough, but their mass was by no means the same, and it was this he tried to slam her with, a shoulder-borne collision aiming to shove her to the side, to throw her balance and misplace her steps on the treacherous terrain. Pain fueled his fury, driving him to snap his teeth into the air in nothing more than an intimidation, to try and make her heart falter and resolve weaken and hopefully fall into his clever scheme.
He held his literal ace in the holes that scattered the steppe, the holes he had swiftly placed in the map of his mind. She had done no such thing, and he held this advantage tight with bated breath borne between clenched teeth, a small patch of the wicked dangers in the direction he aimed to shove her in. There would be no mercy from the black stallion, those ghoulish eyes bore no kindness and no emotion but anger, and the bared snarl he flashed her demanded her flesh to grind between his teeth. Ammon wore the visage of Hell's angel with ease, and within the depths of his mind he could only wonder if this poor girl knew what she played with.
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
Summary: Ammon falls for her feint, and rather than meeting her charge with antlers and a thrust as he had intended, he's forced to flinch to the side, her hooves opening up two moderate gashes on his side. Seeing her less-stocky build, he rears a bit and tries to shove his side and shoulder against her, hoping to drive her off-balance and into a patch of gopher-holes, like an asshole. He also bites the air once, hoping the 'insane' gesture is enough to spook her, and make his manipulation of her position easier. Have i mentioned he's an asshole?
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: October 3rd
Tags: @
