It was all screams and shouts between those of the herd, and Leviathan could taste blood in his mouth. There were snaps and sharp cracks of hollow bones, and he knew the beast was grounded, but that didn't make it any more lethal. It was still a fearsome creature and could deal damage (the beak alone had laid part of his back wide open), and yet... it wasn't finished. Those broken wings still moved; unable to take up flight it chose to instead lash out, and he gripped the wing he was holding on to. The most it managed was to lift, and feathers and skin tore under his teeth before the appendage slammed down.
As massive as he was, he was knocked back by the blow, his body giving a roll on the ground, grit digging in to wounds as he hit the canyon wall, the only thing to stop him. It knocked the wind out of him, and he coughed as he got up, shaking his head and turning it to catch sight of the mayhem. The grit and sand allowed the blood to clot more, but it dug down in to the ragged wounds, making him suck in a breath through his teeth as he balanced on his hooves again and lifted his head. Fearsome as he was, he was coated in his own blood and the beast's, and he lunged forward.
He followed the shout, though to be honest, he would have gone for the wing again regardless. It was a smart move to restrain the beast, and to render it useless on the ground. His body pushed from his back legs and he leaped through the air for the last few feet, all four hooves slamming on to the wing where it was resting on the ground. The impact was meant to shatter more bones and to use his weight to keep the now useless appendage down on the ground.
For good measure, he moved up several steps, and his head turned to aim his horns down at the joint of the blasted thing, meaning to literally tear the wing in half at the vulnerable point.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
The commander was moments or seconds from being thrown right from the hackles of the beast, and already his mind wantered fro mthe task at hand to the imminent possibility of being knocked spine-first into the canyon below or into the slab beneath. The crunch of his own bones haunted him and he did what any soldier ought to never ever do as the sight unfolded before him - he stopped.
Frozen, terror gripping at his heart as his blue gze caught sights of broken arrows, spear tips and wood all shoved into the back of this fiend's neck, naught but scar tissue holding them in place. How many times had this exact trap been sprung on this thing? Or rather, on other Solterrans. Maxence was almost completely convinced by now as he beat his wings above those of the Teryr's that they were the quarry, and perhaps had been all along. Ten, fifteen arrows he could see stuck into this monster's back, and not a single one had ever brought it more than an itch.
As Bexley sought to ruin the final piece of unspoiled membrane and Avdotya's spear was finally lanced his way the painted soldier gave a roaring warning to the commoner, to all.
"RUN!"
Easily he caught the warrioress's spear within his telepathic range, also grasping it between his teeth for extra force. Stamping down upon a broken speartip, then an arrow with his other free front foot, the Commander sought to open the failed wounds of old before he would attempt to create the final fatal blow. "RUN!" He boomed once more not expecting them to understand, but he could only hope.
The fiend screamed under his feet, soon to toss his head from side to side in a violent shaking motion until the commander and his lance was thrown sky-high. The force of the throw against his wings made it impossible for the man to even begin to flare them and there was little he could do aside from brace his fall.
First came the TWANG of the spear against the rock beneath, then the SLAM of Maxence's spine as he crumbled upon the slab. Uponthe cliffs edge he had been thrown, his mane dangling off.
Wings flayed across the ground, legs dangling over winded lungs, Maxence was almost ready to submit to defeat. Through eyes of an entire ocean he watched the bloodied jaws of his enemy approach, the boom of each foot fall as it approached the final target and the one that had caused the most pain. Blood leached from it's wings where each warrior had stripped his feathers and torn skin from bone, it's tail limp and beyond repair, and it's neck a devastation of former wounds and new.
With the beast upon him, it's jaws opening slowly and readily for the kill, Maxence was on the precipice. It would be so easy to just give in - just slump against the rock face and wait for the demon to take you. But there and then the commander saw an opportunity.
As slowly as the beast opened it's jaws, it's rumbling growl growing in it's throat until it blocked all other sound, Maxence raised Avdotya's spear towards the sun.
In seconds, the rumbles and growls turned to silence.
The monster is distracted from the fiend upon his hackles by the ebony preistess who lunges with so much conviction it almost turned the Teryr's attention exclusively to her. as Inkheart aimed for the fleshy muscle between his neck and wing, others gained upon his feathered wings. Wherever he looked there was a warrior tearing at his hide, picking at his vulnerabilities, and bit by bit the Teryr's strength began to wane.
The woman who had left permenant damage to his tail now stood at a distance from the fray, her attention on the hooting paint at his whither, and so still she remained the least of his concern. The palomino was now marching forward with naught but bravery and malintent etched upon her stoney countenance, a bloodlust only to be satisfied until she began ripping at the beasts wings.
And then there was that great behmoth who had taken it upon himself to slam all four of those boulder-like hooves into his wing, earning a shriek from the quarried monster as he attempted to drag the wounded limb out from under him, skipping upon his haunches away from the brute who had surely broken feathers from skin and tendons from bone.
Now the nuisance upon his neck was shrieking himself and that did nothing but boil the Teryr's confidence. They were panicking it would seem.
But not for long; that flea upon his back was soon to deal the worst blow of all.
CRACK! - it sounded like lightning. An old spear shaft and tip was lifted up through the beast's skin with a forceful step from the paint. SNAP! An arrowhead was wrenched from it's resting place.
The pain was excruciating, the blood loss extreme, and as the beast shook his worst betrayed from his hackles it took only a few moments for him to turn his sights back upon the fallen warrior.
Stamping across the barren earth, each claw chinking over the rock, the Teryr gained on Maxence with a waning ease. In only four steps the raptor was upon him, teeth bared and a growl erupting from his throat.
Blinded by fury, by bloodlust, by hunger, the Elder Teryr scarcely noticed the spear raised toward his mouth. Not even seconds before the beast lunged in to take his trophy the weapon was slung forth with all the precision and strength it's wielder could muster, and it glided straight into the silken palette of it's quarry.
There was almost noe sound at first; the roaring ceased immediately as the spear was sent shooting directly into brain. All that came next was a death rattle, the gargle of death and the clash of the fall.
The Teryr was dead.
At the heights of the canyon his body lay, skull lurking on the edge of the canyon's largest cliff. Here it would stay for the century to come; a reminder to all who came and went that solterrans were not to be trifled with.
BOOM. say yer goodbyes everybody this is one beasty down!
Thanks so much for participating everyone, this was such a fun thread!
The Teryr had swiped along the stallion's left side with its massive winged claws, just before its joints were rendered useless.. and left a nasty slice along his hide that oozed and dripped blood down his white and plum-colored fur. Still, Tor begrudgingly listened to the winged stallion's words, even as he lay perched up on the massive, scar-riddled back of the beast. A stupid spot to be, especially so close to the canyon's edge... wings or not, for they will do you no good should you be knocked unconscious.
It was then he began to question his decision-making.
Cool red eyes regarded the flashy, painted stallion with not contempt, but distrust. He was not someone who had spent long in Solterra (nor held any real loyalties), but he felt a familiar sting of uncertainty. Was he fit to lead this rag-tag band? Would any of the other 'natives' even accept him, despite his noble attempt at defeating this massive creature?
And as if words spoken from a god, for a moment, the massive brute questioned whether the painted stallion would meet his demise at the beak of an ages-old prehistoric bird. For he froze atop its back, his expression going numb in a thousand yard stare.
Torstein had already made his distance between himself and the duo, standing about a wing's length away. He waited for Maxence to make a move - any move, really - or be struck from the Teryr's back.
And struck he was.
The Teryr flung him from atop his saddle, sent him skidding across the canyon towards the edge of the precipice. He stopped mere inches from falling into the void below, his wings all but useless now as they lay crumpled against the sand. And the Teryr - it came at him, shrieking like a banshee on its last legs. It bled, it oozed, it was broken and run down. But it was not dead.
Yet.
Maxence did something that surprised the plum stallion. He wholly expected him to give in, to lay limp and defeated as the Teryr took its revenge... but the painted stallion still had Avdotya's spear, it seemed. And he flung it, into the open jaws of the prehistoric bird, up into its palette and straight into its small brain.
The expression that was written across Torstein's face was of mild, tamed surprise. The beast slumped, blood pouring out of its mouth, along the edge of the canyon. The large lot of them had closed in on this massive beast, so it was not surprising if it died due to all the injuries inflicted upon it. But what Tor did not expect, was for Maxence to be the one to actually topple it.
Steely gaze regarded Maxence, and the stallion nodded. It was about as close to a sign of respect that the painted one would get. He turned away from the crumpled beast, and made his exit into the rest of the canyon's valley.. seeking to tend to his own wounds, or find whatever plant it was that the unknown lady said would 'heal' him. His help was no longer needed here, as the age-old beast lay dead for the vultures to pick its bones clean.
Despite the supposed 'leader's victory, distrust brewed within the massive stallion's belly. Was Maxence a fit leader, or was he merely a flashy window dressing facade, decorated in false accomplishments?
Afterall, his victory was only thanks to a spear that was not even his own.
He bled. Leviathan bled but the beast bled more, wailed in its last throes and finally went down. He himself had managed to get out of the way, somehow, pushing himself to a safe spot and panting with wide nostrils, his head held high, his neck and spine aching. Blood pooled over paint markings and spread down his flanks and belly, but he cared not.
Battered and bruised, the Solterrans were victorious over the beast. It had been a good battle.
Leviathan shook himself, his wet mane coming out of the bun a little, stray strands whipping against his nape before he blew out a haggard breath. It was done, and he only stood there, watching the beast, and feeling the trickle of blood. There was still an itch under his skin, his need to take a trophy. A feather or two perhaps, maybe a few bones. Certainly he'd prefer the feathers, to weave them in to his mane and tail and show his victory, as well as the scars that would dot his hide.
His spine would have the biggest, from shoulder to rear from where the titanic bird's beak had neatly laid him open.
A sigh, and the warrior felt the adrenaline beginning to ebb out of his system, and he began to walk slowly. For the most part, he nodded at the new Sovereign, his head dipping down and his ruby red eye focusing on Maxence, before he turned himself and began the trek that would take him from the canyon and to some place to clean his wounds.
It would do no good to die of infection, after all.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
The dark woman was intent on severing the wing from the Teryr's body bit by bit, her teeth ripping into its disgusting hide, the muscles taught beneath. They were all attacking, all helping to defeat this monster. And based off the wounds that she had received, that several of them had received, it was painfully clear that everyone was needed to kill it. Out of the corner of her golden eye, she spotted Maxence above the beast, upon it, stamping on the old arrows and spearheads. The giant stallion attacking with all four hooves on the beast. Adrenaline rushed through her, and she could only hear her own pulse in her ears. A shout, something incoherent from Maxence. A war cry perhaps! She rips, nearly claws. Ears pinned, eyes fierce. A call again, this time it breaks through the haze surrounding her mind, her focus.
'RUN!' Maxence calls.
She tears again, then lifts her bloodied lips from the beast in time to see Maxence flung. Flung!! To the edge of the cliff. Inkheart feels a pang in her chest, the wind stolen from her in that moment. Their possible new leader lay on the precipice, not moving, and she wondered if he was broken, shattered and unable to rise. Her wings flapped hard in the heat, moving her away from the Elder Teryr. She was thankful she had for even under attack it moved toward Maxence, a predatory, satisfactory gleam in its eye. In horror she watched, fully expecting to see the painted warrior meet his end.
But so fast she almost missed it, he threw the spear at the Teryr. The point pierced tender hide, going deep through the skull and into its brain. The shaft barely sticks out from its lower jaw, a gruesome sight. The beast crumbles to the ground with a resounding thud. She lands upon the canyon plateau, careful to not put weight on her injured leg. Her crown turns toward the painted stallion, decorated in all his war gear.
The woman's sides heaved with exhaustion. Their battle was winding down, and with it, the adrenaline that coursed through her heated veins. She began to feel every bruise and bloodied scratch, felt her lungs nearly wither in her chest from the heat and dust and then pushed a heavy grunt from her throat. Damn bird, she thought to herself. Nothing with a beak and wings was ever desirable in her books; it was an opinion she had gotten from her mother before her. She had told her tales of great brawls against Teryrs and the many times they had picked off members of the Davke. Each and every time Avdotya heard of the ferocious birds her dislike for them grew stronger.
Now, as one stood over Maxence prepared to drive its beak through his battered body, she felt her hatred effervesce. The mare watched with her body motionless. She was prepared to witness the death of the painted stallion right there and then, but it suddenly became clear that it was not his time for death's black hold. Instead, in the blink of an eye, Avdotya watched her spear find its way into the Teryr's brain, sending it crashing to the ground and towards its demise. Something of a smile cracked at her dry lips. Perhaps this man deserved more respect than she once thought.
When the dust finally settled and the gathered warriors began to part ways, Avdotya approached the bird's lifeless body with its killer still alongside it. She dipped her head - some form of approval? - and reached down for the shaft of her spear, pulling it free from the flesh it rested in. The woman frowned at the mess of it, half-way coated in bright red blood and dotted with globs of brain matter. It would take time to return it to its pristine condition, but for now, she simply looked to Maxence and took a step closer to his battered body... and then wiped each side of the blade against his hide. A subtle smirk found its way to her face. "Well done."
What had just happened?
One moment, she stood just shy of the teryr; the next, she was thrown aside like a ragdoll, slamming into the rocky canyon walls. How much time passed without her knowledge? She was vaguely aware of a painful throbbing in her skull, blood between her lashes, blood in her teeth, blood on her sides, blood in her hair. She could see the scene laid out in front of her from where she lay in a disfigured heap, head torn open by the rocks and sides just as savaged by the beast’s talons, but she couldn’t process it at all. Though her eyes stared out as what remained of the court put an end to the teryr, blinking frantically and darting all the while as her sides heaved with panicked gasps, she would not have been able to recall exactly what occurred, were you to ask her later. Images were just images, the soft brush of desert heat nothing but a written implication – nothing that happened was happening to her, and she was not there. And yet -
Reality slammed into her like a train, and suddenly she was aware again. With this newfound awareness came an almost overwhelming wave of pain, one which she shouldered with gritted teeth; her eyes remained eerily cool, even as she blinked blood from her lashes, even as she came to the quiet realization that this battle had been won. And by who? Her gaze found the painted stallion. Maxence. Somehow, she had anticipated it – initiative was a powerful force. Even in the wake of this realization, she couldn’t find it in herself to feel anything, not immediately; her thoughts were disjointed, a messy tangle of words and fragments that didn’t connect. It ached. She was not in control of her own mind, and it ached. Careless. She had been careless, and now she was suffering for it.
(Her collar burned. She could feel Viceroy’s disapproval, and that was what ultimately shook her free of her haze.)
By the time she regained her bearings, several of the others had already flooded away from the gory scene. She stumbled up on unsteady, bruised legs; the act of moving sent a ripple of pain through her frame, but it was ignored, dismissed, sent to the back of her mind to be processed at a later time – preferably once she was alone, and capable of seeing about her wounds. (What was it that Viceroy would say, at the end of a battle?) “Gir-tha ziha.” The words were barely a whisper, to herself more than anything – her tongue felt muddled, thick and unkempt in her mouth. (Did those words imply glorious victory? A prayer for the departed? “Survival, Sera.”) She stepped forward on wobbling limbs and nearly keeled forward, still batting blood from her lashes. The world blurred.
A deep breath, and then she was forward – no hesitation, no tension, no frailty. Her movements were fluid, though each step burnt, and her gaze was thoughtful. She eyed their new leader for a long moment, then offered a simple nod of acknowledgement. Solis bless your steps, Maxence. Her gaze flitted across the warriors still gathered, and she mentally ran through the catalogue of Solterran faces that she knew. With what I have seen of us, you may need it.
-----
<3
I'm going to assume that sera popped out of the last part of this fight because she took a pretty bad hit to the head and went into shock or something IDK
I just kinda...added the theoretical damage together? So she's Not Having a Good Time.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
08-24-2017, 09:03 PM - This post was last modified: 08-24-2017, 09:03 PM by Seraphina
Bexley’s adrenaline has turned her so blind, so deaf, so numb to the world that she hardly hears Maxence’s warning, much less reacts to it: her only focus is the shreds of tendon, the bones jutting through the wing above her, the salty smell of blood wafting through the air that is nothing if not satisfying. Her heart races with an irregular patter at the very edges of her chest, hitting bone and bone again. Over the loud rush of blood in her veins Bexley only catches the tail end of his voice, but even as she hears it it floods in one ear and out the other, not registering, not making sense - Run! - just a garbled word that can’t stick, doesn’t mean anything. Gasping, hiccuping, lashing out for air, Bex’s head goes black as she tries to understand.
Run? Why would he be telling them to run?
The Teryr thrashes suddenly; Bexley loses her grip on its wing and stumbles backward, and as she looks up she sees Maxence flung like a ragdoll through the sky above her head, not even those huge wings enough to keep him from hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Bexley freezes. Too ramped up to be disturbed, she watches him with a cocanic intensity, pupils pin-point under the glare of the sun, zeroed in on his body folding over the boulder, wings splayed around him like an already-dead thing. Get up, prays Bexley, moving toward him without even realizing. Her legs are numb, her muscles blazing. Get up, you dumb fucking idiot. If you don’t, you’re never going to hear the end of it.
Then that roar, echoing above her head, and Bexley breaks out into a cold sweat that covers her from head to hoof. One of them is going to die. One of them is going to die.
In horror, she watches the throw of the spear, the flash of metal tip in the light, swirling and turning with arial grace, and she’s still horrified as it blasts into the back of the creatures mouth, spits up blood and brain matter out of the newly formed hole in his skull, although she should be pleased: it takes so many long moments for her to return to her body, find her own skin again, looking at the slump of the Teryr’s skull as it hits the ground, its body crumpling and folding, crumpling and folding. A gust of relief, so visceral it hurts, courses like wind through every corner of her body. With a breathless smile Bexley throws her azure gaze up to the sky and says out loud, into the eye of the sun, Thank you.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
It took moments, minutes even to return to his normal self, and though his ears still rang and his vision hardly functioning the commander still breathed. The oxygen was blessed and filled with gratitude, the kind he thought he would not be breathing.
Vision returning with each blink, hearing returning over the underlaying ring of trauma, Maxence craned his neck over his upturned body and attempted to free his own wings from under those of the slumped, dead beast. Already he was drenched in blood; totally awash with victory. The white in his hide had changed to a stained mixture of sand, dirt, sweat and plasma, and the foam in his pits only adding to the charm. Looking to those who shared his victory, turning his nose first over Leviathan, Bexley, Torstein and Inkheart he felt his sprained wings and aching bones wish to join them for the hideous walk home, but still he lay dizzy and dumbfounded on the slab. They had fought so bravely it almost caused him to stop in admiration, though they would know well by now that sentimentality was beyond him.
Seraphina whispered something from afar, drawing his eyes of a tempest toward her own. What she spoke was something he could not make out in the head of the moment, still plucking his wings from under the corpse and rolling over onto his side. What she said would be a question etched into his mind for the weeks to come, but it was her tactical advice he sought the most.
It was as Avdotya approached that he found himself grounded and in the present finally. Perhaps it was her electrifying stare or her dominating demenor that did it, but at last Maxence felt the strength to stand. Watching as she plucked her spear from the fresh cavity in the beast's skull, only to whipe it upon his own sweat-sheened skin, Maxence silently flicked his gaze from the bloody dribble upon his hide to the woman who perhaps subconsciously he had sought to impress, but also initially had sought to follow. If Maxence had a choice he would chose Avdotya to lead them, but clearly it was not solis's will. She was another who's advice and support would prove invaluable.
The rays of Solis himself left Maxence as an outlined shadow, blood slinking off his gilded hide in dirty drops as he lurched toward the light. Unfolding his wings, stretching over each bruise and ruffled feather Maxence rose into the sun, a hoof stood upon the carcass of the Teryr as he stood in the rays of his first sunset as the sovereign of Solterra.
THE TERYR IS DEAD
THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATED IN THE PLOT! THIS WAS SO FUN! this concludes our teryr hunt :D
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