"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Aten had to admit, the stallion caught him by surprise. He had a feeling that the red dun would've done something to counterattack or defend himself, so he was at least prepared for that. But, unless one day he suddenly developed the ability to see into the immediate future, he couldn't have fully prepared himself for how the stallion would strike back. When Aten moved in, the red dun stayed still a second long enough to escape Aten and give him room to strike back while leaving the golden one helpless.
Sure enough, once the red dun had ducked under Aten's strike, the golden one couldn't stop fast enough due to the momentum he'd been carrying. Every horse was capable of stopping quickly, it was just that with Aten it wouldn't be clean or allow him room to fight back until he got on all four hooves again.
When Aten's strike missed and came down, his hooves shaking the ground as he did, the red dun retaliated. He spun around and exposed his hind hooves, Aten's eyes widening as he realized the situation he'd put himself in. Bracing for the impact, knowing it was too fast, pain exploded in the golden one's left hip. It was clear it had been a powerful strike, but obviously nothing fatal.
Somewhat hindered by the blow, Aten spun around as well so that his front side was now facing the red dun. Since he was still facing the red's hindquarters, Aten took advantage of this. If the red reacted fast enough, he could land another blow, but not one as strong as the one that hit Aten's hindquarters. By the time he would have been able to land such an attack, Aten would already be on him, teeth aiming for the withers.
Which is exactly what the golden stallion was doing. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his hindquarters, the golden stallion moved toward the red dun, going up on his hind legs again as he did so. His teeth were already out and ready, moving toward their target in an attempt to wound the powerful red dun. It was a bit of a minor strike compared to the blow Aten had taken, but right now, with the red dun facing away and his legs in striking position, it was all Aten could afford.
07-03-2017, 09:21 PM (This post was last modified: 07-03-2017, 09:21 PM by Wyrm.)
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He closes his eyes. Imagines the warm spray of blood across his face. Wyrm hasn’t had that comfort in a while, hasn’t been able to return to the woods for sport (aside from Rapture, of course) and perhaps that’s why he forgets: never celebrate before a total victory. His eyes flash open and the air before him, so lifeless blue in infrared, is quivering - turning almost … purple. “Son of a -”
But he’s already twisting his body in flight, belly up to the sky while slick wings press tightly over his back and as he soars, the wall of flame erupts around him. Never (in his entire life!) had his sire ever thought to touch him with the blue flame. The shifter has never known the lick of fire and as it eats away feather, skin, flesh - he is blind to every other feeling. His back curves, the veritable soup of his molecular makeup writhing beneath shapeless skin while his hind legs twist above him, sending him in an arc that lands him slamming (belly first) into the ground. The thing writhes, shrinks, and bleeds color until only rivulets of trampled sand seem to remain.
And then the sand shifts.
A cloud of fine granules explodes from the floor of the arena, spraying in all directions like the sea against a stone to reveal outstretched, leather wings. The skin, paper thin over hollow bones, is blistered and causing him an incredible measure of bloody pain. “-bitch.” He hisses, squatting on thick legs. Above him, pretty as a picture, is the damned fire-wielder; flapping about to play the part of a sitting duck. Wyrm is more than obliging to rise to the occasion. With a great heave he rockets skyward, pumping demon-like pinions against the force of gravity while ignoring the slick wetness of those wings as they touch together over his spine. Wyrm is something else in this moment, something terrible and unstoppable as an act of nature and his flaring red gaze is locked on that fucking orange eyesore.
He’s a second away from being in range for a long-distance attack - mere moments from being able to push the limits of his own imagination! The terrors he could free from his own body are waiting for the command … and then - he *snaps* altogether from thin air, becoming a whizzing black dot that’s headed straight for the exposed area between the other stallion’s eyes.
A horse is a horse, of course, so it’s only natural that Wyrm should be a freaking horsefly while he zips right into the other shifter’s blind spot.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
07-04-2017, 10:10 AM (This post was last modified: 07-04-2017, 10:11 AM by Castile.)
Castile hesitates briefly, but Ivar’s arrival emboldens him to continue his entrance into the arena his mother forged. A moment connects their eyes, she towering above on the cliff and he far below in the sand pit. There is a coldness in her expression that he recognizes. Right now, she isn’t mother, she is a Queen.
The air is humming with electricity. Curiosity, anger, passion, determination all thicken the coastal breeze as it kisses the skin of the gladiators. A quiet laugh echoes in the boy’s thoughts; he is no gladiator, no fighter. This is his first attempt at anything which makes him all the more nervous as he sees seasoned warriors stepping forward. He glances at each of them, weighing them over when his mother’s cry soars above their heads to begin the brawl. ”Shit,” is all he thinks before his attention jerks to Ivar who is already running toward him. His eyes brighten, startled, as Ivar rises into a rear. Castile’s instinct is to turn his head away, but his friend’s hooves still make contact against the plane of his neck and part of his shoulder. The concussion is new to him, unexpected and so very unfamiliar, but it sends a surge of adrenaline through his veins. As Ivar lands, Castile snakes toward him to try biting at either face or neck before reeling away to create some amount of distance.
His wings begin to open to take flight, but then the air is spinning, whirling around him like a storm before blasting against his side. His wings flutter madly as he pins his wings back against his sides, his eyes narrowing while trying to keep his balance. Only when it settles does he stumble to regain his balance, his gaze darting to see the shapeshifter attack Orion and City. They have help, however, from a boy that blazes a wall of flames in retaliation toward the shapeshifter.
Everything whirls around Castile, his eyes searching for a target but also an escape.
There is one male that catches his attention as his heart pounds in his chest; he can hear his pulse thundering in his ears at the commotion surrounding him. What Castile doesn’t know is that this strange male – smelling of the ocean and Nerine – is actually his uncle. After he makes a target of the wind manipulator, Castile’s body feeds off the adrenaline to partially shift – an ability he has not yet learned to truly control – with an elongated neck and talons. He runs at first but sweeps his wings once, twice, three times to get just enough air to swiftly glide towards the stallion. His talons widen with anticipation as he tries to penetrate the stallion’s skin, clawing him before awkwardly and clumsily landing.
The bones in his body feel foreign, not his, with these reptilian claws. He doesn’t understand what is going on, what his body is capable of. He freezes amid the chaos, watching as shapeshifters, wind controllers, and normal collide in a vicious dance.
Took Ivar's strike to his neck and shoulder before trying to bite him, was blasted by Canaan's wind, and tried to claw Buckthorn.
