It has been so long — too long — since he last felt his blood singing in the way that it sings today.
It’s the war-song of the desert, a fever-pitch that fills his veins with fire and sand and makes each step feel like a sand viper preparing to strike. He shouldn’t know this dance that teeters on the edge of death more than it does life but oh, he does.
He had not known that war was what he had been waiting for. All those nights he spent galloping between the trees like a man half-dead, half-wild, fury and sorrow driving the blood through his heart more surely than a heartbeat, and he had not known. It comes rushing back to him now, the copper taste of blood on his tongue, the want, the need to feel something other than dirt beneath his pounding hooves. His magic rises both soft and feral inside of his chest, until he is choking on it. Flower petals and thorns dig into his throat, bougainvillea wraps itself tightly around his heart, and he —
He is going under it all, under the violence and the war-drum beat of the steppe. And perhaps it is a good thing that Elena laughs then, that her voice reminds him of spring and sunshine instead of winter and battlefields. It makes a part of him soften when he stops at the edge of the field, snow crackling under hoof.
It reminds him that he does not want to hurt the things he loves.
And so when she takes off across the ice, he watches. He does not move out just as recklessly to meet her, until their teeth and bodies clash overtop the snow (but oh! how his blood begs him to.) Ipomoea waits for her to come to him, wings opening and closing like restless soldiers eager to go to war. And he does not leap away when she moves to strike him.
Her shoulder crashes against his ribs like a wild beast against the steel bars of its cage, driving the air from his lungs. He hears her laughter from before ringing again in the back of his mind, echoing off in the muscles of his chest as they spasm and struggle to draw in air. The ache comes when he tries to inhale, burning him from the inside out, his own flowers suffocating him.
But in that moment, she is right there against him, shoulder to side, skin to skin — and when she slips, all the world seems to sing now, now, now! in his ears.
And everything in him comes alive with a snap.
Ipomoea is rearing before she gets the chance to dart away, twisting to follow after her as she pushes off of the slippery ground. Snow is kicked up into the air all around them, glinting sharply in the sunlight.
It is only at the last moment that he tucks his hooves and aims with his knees instead, for her mane, her back, her hips — wherever he can reach. And while he throws every ounce of his weight into the contact, the nip he tries to place along her neck is far too gentle to satisfy the bloodlust roaring in his ears.
It’s the war-song of the desert, a fever-pitch that fills his veins with fire and sand and makes each step feel like a sand viper preparing to strike. He shouldn’t know this dance that teeters on the edge of death more than it does life but oh, he does.
He had not known that war was what he had been waiting for. All those nights he spent galloping between the trees like a man half-dead, half-wild, fury and sorrow driving the blood through his heart more surely than a heartbeat, and he had not known. It comes rushing back to him now, the copper taste of blood on his tongue, the want, the need to feel something other than dirt beneath his pounding hooves. His magic rises both soft and feral inside of his chest, until he is choking on it. Flower petals and thorns dig into his throat, bougainvillea wraps itself tightly around his heart, and he —
He is going under it all, under the violence and the war-drum beat of the steppe. And perhaps it is a good thing that Elena laughs then, that her voice reminds him of spring and sunshine instead of winter and battlefields. It makes a part of him soften when he stops at the edge of the field, snow crackling under hoof.
It reminds him that he does not want to hurt the things he loves.
And so when she takes off across the ice, he watches. He does not move out just as recklessly to meet her, until their teeth and bodies clash overtop the snow (but oh! how his blood begs him to.) Ipomoea waits for her to come to him, wings opening and closing like restless soldiers eager to go to war. And he does not leap away when she moves to strike him.
Her shoulder crashes against his ribs like a wild beast against the steel bars of its cage, driving the air from his lungs. He hears her laughter from before ringing again in the back of his mind, echoing off in the muscles of his chest as they spasm and struggle to draw in air. The ache comes when he tries to inhale, burning him from the inside out, his own flowers suffocating him.
But in that moment, she is right there against him, shoulder to side, skin to skin — and when she slips, all the world seems to sing now, now, now! in his ears.
And everything in him comes alive with a snap.
Ipomoea is rearing before she gets the chance to dart away, twisting to follow after her as she pushes off of the slippery ground. Snow is kicked up into the air all around them, glinting sharply in the sunlight.
It is only at the last moment that he tucks his hooves and aims with his knees instead, for her mane, her back, her hips — wherever he can reach. And while he throws every ounce of his weight into the contact, the nip he tries to place along her neck is far too gentle to satisfy the bloodlust roaring in his ears.
@
”here am i!“
Summary: Po watches as Elena canters towards him and waits for her to reach him. Her shoulder strikes his side and forces the breath from his lungs, but he was waiting for her to get close. Before she can get away he rears up and tries to force her to the ground with his weight (but tucks his hooves because he belatedly realizes he isn't trying to break her spine.)
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: 09/12/20 (putting this a day late since it's nearly midnight novus-time - also still flexible!)
Tags: @Elena, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @layla
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: 09/12/20 (putting this a day late since it's nearly midnight novus-time - also still flexible!)
Tags: @
