11-11-2017, 07:24 PM
<center><div style="width: 550px; background: url('http://i.imgur.com/hYDldZI.pngg'); padding-top: 10px; background-position: top; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: #d1cdca; border-radius: 160px 160px 20px 20px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000000; border-top: solid 5px #928c84;"><div style="width: 510px; margin-top: 420px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; padding: 10px; background: #fff; opacity: 0.43; font-family: Times; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #141111; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 120%; text-align: justify; border-radius: 10px 10px; border-top: solid 5px #5f5c57;border-bottom: solid 5px #5f5c57;">Castile has no personal vendetta with Krigare, no true motive to choose him except to merely gain experience. The flat plains of the battleground have sung to him for months, beckoning him, luring him into its grasp. He is capable of so much, but the boy has hindered himself and hasn’t bothered to even try until now. His inexperience will play against him, that he knows, but it doesn’t stop him – not this time.
Waiting allows his mind to wander, his nerves to be plucked like the strings of a violin. Come on, come on, he whispers to himself as his breath clouds around his face, his mismatched eyes flickering to every direction. To stay warm and to prepare himself, Castile idly paces. There is snow and ice blanketing the plains as far as he can see. Fortunately, the clouds are no longer spitting flakes, allowing a fairly clear visual of when his opponent materializes and joins him. Simultaneously, they scrutinize one another. Having no ill will, Castile offers a nod, but nothing more. He still paces – a few steps to the left, turn, a few to the right, turn – even as Krigare speaks as though their paths have crossed by chance.
The conversation is moot and Castile has no interest. In response, he merely grunts as his gaze remains funneled on his target knowing well that an attack will come to set this battle aflame.
And it most certainly does.
There is no way Castile could have anticipated what would happen, or how. He blinks and Krigare is lunging with his mouth agape, his blunt teeth bared. At the time of attack, Castile is still pacing perpendicular to his opponent with his right side open. Admittedly, he is startled by the sudden lurch and so he stumbles to his left in the shallow snow, away from Krigare, but it doesn’t spare him from having his skin tightly gripped between the stallion’s teeth. His wings sprout up and slightly extended to regain balance, and with that, the top of his shoulder near the withers is bitten. With the motion, a patch of his mane is also caught in the foray.
When the grip is released, the area is left throbbing as blood rushes to the site. Castile, mostly unfamiliar to pain, groans but it pours adrenaline into his system. This unleashes something inside him he has struggled to control. It doesn’t take over him entirely, not yet, but it ripples down his legs and shifts his hooves into the claws of a dragon. Unaware of the change – his mind thinks only of the battle, of his retaliation – Castile rears up ¾ of his height and lashes out toward Krigare’s right shoulder. He anticipated seeing his hooves flail in attempt to bluntly hit somewhere on his opponent’s right side of the forehand (since his targeting isn’t entirely precise), and so is shocked to see talons desperately groping to tear flesh instead.
When his hooves – no, claws – alight back into the snow, a chill rises through him but subsides with another wave of throbbing heat. His right shoulder has been hit, the dull concussion rippling through his muscle. <i>”Shit,”</i> he mutters under his breath, his jaws clenching and his eyes shutting for an instant. Krigare, with his hind end facing Castile, veers right after his attack. Ideally, the young stallion would have kicked back considering the close proximity, however, he hesitates to add additional stress to his shoulder so soon. The adrenaline is dulling the ache to a degree, but his ignorance and youthful fear decides against his initial plan.
The anger brewing inside him – it has to be anger, right? What else would he feel in the heat of battle? – fuels his shape shifting only so much. He wants the claws to remain to provide more traction in the ice and snow, but gradually they are being replaced by hooves once more. As he swerves to his left, two claws have awkwardly shifted back to hooves – his rear left and front right – which makes moving more ungraceful, but the traction in the remaining claws help to complete the tight loop to face Krigare. In that time frame, Castile’s face has mutated into a cross of a dragon, having the muzzle and teeth of one, that snap forward when he lunges for his opponent’s neck. He isn’t trying to kill his opponent, but perhaps maim? Would that make him the victor? Any damage could potentially scar therefore leaving a mark of the deep ferocity Castile is capable of. If, in the case, he does find purchase, the young stallion tries to thrash in order to do more than leave mere puncture holes. Any injury could distract or slow down Krigare, or so he hopes. Castile retracts and turns right, his left side facing his opponent as to protect his injured right shoulder. He tries to keep reasonably close to his rival as to not enable him the chance for great momentum or power in his following retaliations.
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poor Castile still doesn't know how to totally control his shifting xD
Waiting allows his mind to wander, his nerves to be plucked like the strings of a violin. Come on, come on, he whispers to himself as his breath clouds around his face, his mismatched eyes flickering to every direction. To stay warm and to prepare himself, Castile idly paces. There is snow and ice blanketing the plains as far as he can see. Fortunately, the clouds are no longer spitting flakes, allowing a fairly clear visual of when his opponent materializes and joins him. Simultaneously, they scrutinize one another. Having no ill will, Castile offers a nod, but nothing more. He still paces – a few steps to the left, turn, a few to the right, turn – even as Krigare speaks as though their paths have crossed by chance.
The conversation is moot and Castile has no interest. In response, he merely grunts as his gaze remains funneled on his target knowing well that an attack will come to set this battle aflame.
And it most certainly does.
There is no way Castile could have anticipated what would happen, or how. He blinks and Krigare is lunging with his mouth agape, his blunt teeth bared. At the time of attack, Castile is still pacing perpendicular to his opponent with his right side open. Admittedly, he is startled by the sudden lurch and so he stumbles to his left in the shallow snow, away from Krigare, but it doesn’t spare him from having his skin tightly gripped between the stallion’s teeth. His wings sprout up and slightly extended to regain balance, and with that, the top of his shoulder near the withers is bitten. With the motion, a patch of his mane is also caught in the foray.
When the grip is released, the area is left throbbing as blood rushes to the site. Castile, mostly unfamiliar to pain, groans but it pours adrenaline into his system. This unleashes something inside him he has struggled to control. It doesn’t take over him entirely, not yet, but it ripples down his legs and shifts his hooves into the claws of a dragon. Unaware of the change – his mind thinks only of the battle, of his retaliation – Castile rears up ¾ of his height and lashes out toward Krigare’s right shoulder. He anticipated seeing his hooves flail in attempt to bluntly hit somewhere on his opponent’s right side of the forehand (since his targeting isn’t entirely precise), and so is shocked to see talons desperately groping to tear flesh instead.
When his hooves – no, claws – alight back into the snow, a chill rises through him but subsides with another wave of throbbing heat. His right shoulder has been hit, the dull concussion rippling through his muscle. <i>”Shit,”</i> he mutters under his breath, his jaws clenching and his eyes shutting for an instant. Krigare, with his hind end facing Castile, veers right after his attack. Ideally, the young stallion would have kicked back considering the close proximity, however, he hesitates to add additional stress to his shoulder so soon. The adrenaline is dulling the ache to a degree, but his ignorance and youthful fear decides against his initial plan.
The anger brewing inside him – it has to be anger, right? What else would he feel in the heat of battle? – fuels his shape shifting only so much. He wants the claws to remain to provide more traction in the ice and snow, but gradually they are being replaced by hooves once more. As he swerves to his left, two claws have awkwardly shifted back to hooves – his rear left and front right – which makes moving more ungraceful, but the traction in the remaining claws help to complete the tight loop to face Krigare. In that time frame, Castile’s face has mutated into a cross of a dragon, having the muzzle and teeth of one, that snap forward when he lunges for his opponent’s neck. He isn’t trying to kill his opponent, but perhaps maim? Would that make him the victor? Any damage could potentially scar therefore leaving a mark of the deep ferocity Castile is capable of. If, in the case, he does find purchase, the young stallion tries to thrash in order to do more than leave mere puncture holes. Any injury could distract or slow down Krigare, or so he hopes. Castile retracts and turns right, his left side facing his opponent as to protect his injured right shoulder. He tries to keep reasonably close to his rival as to not enable him the chance for great momentum or power in his following retaliations.
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poor Castile still doesn't know how to totally control his shifting xD