05-17-2018, 06:42 AM
<style>.traton {position:relative; z-index:1; width:500px; background:#000; border-radius: 75px 75px 50px 50px; border:2px solid #424027;} .traton p{margin:0px; padding:25px;} .cave_image{position:relative; z-index:2; margin-bottom:-10px; border-radius: 75px 75px 25px 25px;} .cave_text{position:relative; z-index:10; width:410px; padding:5px; background:#828282; border-radius: 15px 15px 0px 0px; text-align:justify; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 11pt; font-family: georgia; color:#fff;}</style>
<center><div class="traton"><img class="cave_image" src="https://s17.postimg.cc/86xscl0lb/cropcred500.png">
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Perhaps it’s more like a mare to storm into battle without the pomp and circumstance the stallions tend to display. Perhaps it’s just Traton’s way of doing business. Regardless, there was no bravado, no scream of war. The spotted mare paced slowly, perpendicular to her opponent at a distance of about 15 feet, watching her with a single wary left eye. A wave of regret washed over her, cursing internally that she had been foolish enough to enter this <i>damn</i> tournament. Of <i>course</i> a tournament would include fighting. Nevermind that she’d never fought a day in her life. Hadn’t she been taught the opposite? She was perhaps an expert in being seen-but-not-heard. She tried to hide her nervousness, but it shone through the cracks in her façade. Her tail wrung, eyes wide, muscles tensed, nostrils flaring. If she was lucky, maybe it could be mistaken for excited anticipation. That feeling certainly wasn’t absent, but the young mare had seen enough of this land to know that some beings were terrifyingly powerful here. Given, this one seemed normal enough, but she knew that some held hidden powers and <i>that</i> prospect was rather frightening.
The thought occurred to her that this was a friendly sort of fight and should perhaps be introduced as such. <font color=white>“Hello. I-I am Traton. B-b-best of luck to y-you.”</font> Cursing her nervous stutter and the fear that induced it, the spotted mare turned to face Caw, now angled slightly to her left side. She took a deep breath, rocked back on her hindquarters, and charged.
Maintaining sight of the black mare in her left eye, she lurched forward from a standstill toward her opponent’s left shoulder. Time seemed to accelerate as she did so, feeling electrified from the rush of adrenaline flowing through her veins and the surging of blood to her limbs. As she moved, her expression changed, morphing instinctively into something more intimidating, with ears pinned and incisors bared. Thoughts of fear melted away into the task at hand; she had come here with a plan, and now was only left with execution. As she came nearer, she tucked her hind limbs under her body and opened her jaws, appearing that she was preparing to launch her shoulders upward and bite down onto Caw’s withers. Yet she never did jump up; she feinted, diving her muzzle downward and attempting to bite the back of the black mare’s left foreleg.
Perhaps, had the spotted mare been more experienced, she would have been a little choosier about her target, aiming for the tendons. The same could be said even about the nature of her first attack, but this was a mock fight after all, and she wasn’t particularly interested in hurting anyone. Nor was Traton willing to invoke the wrath of some unknown power from the first move, and she supposed that a little caution was not out of line. She was, however, quite proud of her little plan with this feinting business. With proper execution and a bit of good fortune, it would allow her to account for her opponent’s natural inclination to dodge by leaning the withers away to the right, leaving a split second of increased exposure to the left forelimb.
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<center><div class="traton"><img class="cave_image" src="https://s17.postimg.cc/86xscl0lb/cropcred500.png">
<div class="cave_text"><p>
Perhaps it’s more like a mare to storm into battle without the pomp and circumstance the stallions tend to display. Perhaps it’s just Traton’s way of doing business. Regardless, there was no bravado, no scream of war. The spotted mare paced slowly, perpendicular to her opponent at a distance of about 15 feet, watching her with a single wary left eye. A wave of regret washed over her, cursing internally that she had been foolish enough to enter this <i>damn</i> tournament. Of <i>course</i> a tournament would include fighting. Nevermind that she’d never fought a day in her life. Hadn’t she been taught the opposite? She was perhaps an expert in being seen-but-not-heard. She tried to hide her nervousness, but it shone through the cracks in her façade. Her tail wrung, eyes wide, muscles tensed, nostrils flaring. If she was lucky, maybe it could be mistaken for excited anticipation. That feeling certainly wasn’t absent, but the young mare had seen enough of this land to know that some beings were terrifyingly powerful here. Given, this one seemed normal enough, but she knew that some held hidden powers and <i>that</i> prospect was rather frightening.
The thought occurred to her that this was a friendly sort of fight and should perhaps be introduced as such. <font color=white>“Hello. I-I am Traton. B-b-best of luck to y-you.”</font> Cursing her nervous stutter and the fear that induced it, the spotted mare turned to face Caw, now angled slightly to her left side. She took a deep breath, rocked back on her hindquarters, and charged.
Maintaining sight of the black mare in her left eye, she lurched forward from a standstill toward her opponent’s left shoulder. Time seemed to accelerate as she did so, feeling electrified from the rush of adrenaline flowing through her veins and the surging of blood to her limbs. As she moved, her expression changed, morphing instinctively into something more intimidating, with ears pinned and incisors bared. Thoughts of fear melted away into the task at hand; she had come here with a plan, and now was only left with execution. As she came nearer, she tucked her hind limbs under her body and opened her jaws, appearing that she was preparing to launch her shoulders upward and bite down onto Caw’s withers. Yet she never did jump up; she feinted, diving her muzzle downward and attempting to bite the back of the black mare’s left foreleg.
Perhaps, had the spotted mare been more experienced, she would have been a little choosier about her target, aiming for the tendons. The same could be said even about the nature of her first attack, but this was a mock fight after all, and she wasn’t particularly interested in hurting anyone. Nor was Traton willing to invoke the wrath of some unknown power from the first move, and she supposed that a little caution was not out of line. She was, however, quite proud of her little plan with this feinting business. With proper execution and a bit of good fortune, it would allow her to account for her opponent’s natural inclination to dodge by leaning the withers away to the right, leaving a split second of increased exposure to the left forelimb.
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