"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
06-23-2017, 12:44 PM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2017, 07:52 PM by Nayl.)
And so it begins!
I wanted to write something more elaborate but constant time crunches are preventing me from doing so. Ugh.
Tendrils of magic reach forward to roll the boulders into place and to close in the fighters. Nayl notices how City slithers into the mass at the very last second, but she says and does nothing. A smug grin crawls across her lips and her eyes catch ablaze as the fights commence.
- there are no post limitations. Post how many or as few times as you want.
- this is more of a free-for-all so attack anyone, but you can only attack up to THREE times per post.
- abilities allowed
- no God moding or powerplaying of course.
- keep dodges/defense reasonable. You can't escape everything unscathed.
THIS FIGHT AND POSTING ENDS JULY 1ST @ 11:59 PM EST
This is all about having fun and getting muse or stories for your ponies
Let me know if you have questions or if I forgot anything since I'm typing this on my phone.
THE GLADIATORS:
Ivar
Castile
Zenith
Gendry
City (sneaky sneaky)
Orions Belt
Wyrm
Buckthorn
Aten
Canaan
Edit: I've extended it because I didn't consider the fact how busy life is around this time lol. Hell I haven't even been able to post Castile.
So! We have until next Saturday, July 8th!
Battle cry rattles his breathing to quicken, his heart to pulse fiercely. It has been many decades since the seasoned warrior had hung up his armor. Laid to rest his swords...
Standing now in an arena made of sand and stone his crystal blue eyes pass from one contender to the next. They were young, untrained... and... City?! His heavy head raised sharply as he viewed her seated across the battleground. Confusion swept across his brow as his eyes fixated upon her...
Soon the others wore restless as they paired off to spar. He leapt forwards, dodging attacks directed at others. His heavy build rumbled the ground like thunder as he passed. "City!" He shouted above the roar of bodies colliding, "What are ye doing 'ere? 'Tis not safe, ye have a child." His concerned directed towards the tiny being she had came with. He knew she could take care of herself but what was the child to do if she was harmed.
Coming up her right side he rounded behind her and continued up her left. Looking out onto the playing field. Scoping out his competition, readied for an incoming assault. Maybe the defiant mare and him could team up against another pair...
Warrior by Day, Hunter by Night
HTML by Call
Ooc: Just a thought. I'm sure she'll tell him to F off though XD
06-23-2017, 04:19 PM (This post was last modified: 06-23-2017, 04:29 PM by Heartfire.)
OOC: So basically Heartfire is just tossing Canaan into the mix. He's technically a prisoner, so do with that what you will, lol
show them the joy and the pain and the ending
She had done her level best to cow him, but while some things are better left to the imagination, some things are not. In this case, she can think of no better way to teach him just how things would be around here than to show him directly. To toss him into the viper pit, as it were.
Besides, it would do him some good to prove his mettle. Perhaps he would even impress her enough that she would let him go (oh, and did I mention pigs are flying?).
Still, it wouldn’t do to have him get too comfortable. So she directs him towards the newly fashioned gladiator ring. They can hear the raucous noise from some distance away, but as they near, it becomes much more clear it is an organized chaos. The blue and white mare prods her prisoner gently along, her blue eyes glinting with anticipation in the dark mask of her features.
As they approach the ring of boulders, Heartfire slips alongside Canaan, her dark muzzle stretching up to whisper softly in his ear, “Don’t get any clever ideas. Keep in mind, I will be watching. We wouldn’t want any crucial pieces to go missing, would we?”
With that, she drops her chin and prods him forward, her intentions more than clear.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
06-24-2017, 07:37 AM (This post was last modified: 06-24-2017, 07:47 AM by City.)
City
Static pop and crackle of magic echoes within her freckled ears – she’s been successful and thus the battles will begin. Beqanna has come far from where she was in the days of City’s fluid childhood. Faces are contorted with anguish; nostrils are fluttering and hooves pawing at the dirty, cold ground, there is a wave of elastic tension pulling over them now.. The oblong stones that are blackened and wrapped in thorny vines drag and float into place; the ring is set. City blows a hard breath from her nose, her ears lying flat and her yellow eyes flitting from body to body, drinking them in. They’re almost all much bigger and meatier compared the bony, somewhat lithe frame of City.
She’s been fighting bigger, meatier, dick-wielding opponents all of her life. Her mother had raised her with all the knowledge of a retired Chamber General and no excuses were ever allowed to be made, a hardship the warrioress is now thankful for. The jewel-eyed woman who once stalked the long gone jungles of this ever morphing land had taught her as much in her adulthood as her mother did when she was young. The Valley, her final home before Kingdoms finally fell and ancient ties broke away, had given her the closing details. She is a warrior of the old Beqanna, a native of the ancient veins that used to pump the heart of this darkly magical hunk of earth. There are many like her, Carnage sees to that every Fall and has since forever was ever a thing.
So far though, she sees no kin here.
The steely stallion’s voice pitches over the roar of scoring hooves and slamming chests. Stallion’s threw themselves at her, coming between her and the approaching draft – it is Orion, she sees clearly now. At first she wants to hurl herself at him, teach him, fold his big body or at least cut him just a little; he does something peculiar though and positions himself beside her. She wants so badly to hate him, really, she does, but for whatever reason the fates just won’t allow it. Since the first time she laid her cold Sulphur eyes on him she thought him an oaf, too soft, too gentle – but still she ended up following him home (sort of). And then now. He guards her as if with pity, or fear for her porcelain skin (ha!) and her angelic innocence. Strategy will only let her accept his help, how dumb would it be to chase him off, eh?
Save him for the end, little snake, he’ll be delicious; you’ll see.
She barely pays any mind to the prisoner being thrown in just for fodder. She notes her desire to find out where he is from, why he is here, but does not make any move to attack him just yet. Her teeth gnash, her forelegs gouge and her hind batters with powerful kicks. Her favorite move being to grab someone delicate ear or the sensitive bridge of their nose and trip them, or try to. Once on the ground it’s hard to get back up, especially if she has the help of gray shrek…
rushed and filled with all I found more, give me more, give me more
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
There is a thrill in the air, and it slips into Ivar with each breath he takes. It grows stronger with each rapid beat of his heart and the steady pound of his pale hooves as he circles the edges of the ring. Despite his enthusiasm, he is no fool. He is searching for something, that much is clear with the way his brown eyes cast across the sandy pit.
There.
He’s found it.
With a sharp squeal, the piebald colt throws himself into the battlefield. His target is clear: Castile.
The boy is a match in both color and size; they are equals and well-paired. Ivar has no intention of seriously harming his fellow prince, and he trusts the other boy feels much the same. This is a mock, a practice, Ivar’s first experience on the battle field.
He races forward, skidding to a halt a few feet from Castile’s left shoulder. Rearing up on his hind legs, he stretches forward, hoping for a hit somewhere along Castile’s neck or shoulder.
don't put my love on your back burner; never let anything that hot get cold
There is a darkness in his eyes – disdain; an acrid and bitter taste left in his mouth. The salty brine of the sea stirred nothing but frustration within him, and an uncomfortable twitching within the hollow bone of his useless wings, which lay tucked against the broad curve of his flank. With the tips of his feathers dissolved into dust, he is grounded, though the wanderlust stirs restlessly within his veins – the golden flecks of his eyes gleaming beneath the pale light of the sun as he searches the bright and empty sky.
He is quiet – unusually so; he has nothing to say.
His heart is longing to be elsewhere, to be pressed close to the emerald of his lover’s skin, his cheek against the soft waves of her navy tresses – to be with his young sons, seeing the world through their eyes (no wanderlust could tear him away from their youth – so beautiful, and innocent).
Yet he is here, captive, for something far beyond his own control.
When she finally beckons him forth from the dark, damp confinement of the cave, he is wary (she is unpredictable), but quietly, he becomes her shadow, as the light of morning touches the deep gold of his skin. He is led through a long and winding pathway of brush and wilting fauna – but his heart is soon pounding within his chest, his eyes wide and disbelieving at the unnatural stone formation lay before him – daunting.
A glance is given to his captor, who is wry and smug, her lips pressed against his ear (he would shiver, but he is too angry, too tense), intimidation interlaced within each word.
He is no warrior (he is not his father, carved from battle and war-born – but it is in his blood), and dread has already begun to fill him – but reluctantly, he enters the fray, hazel eyes searching the unfamiliar faces.
He presses close to the stone barrier, his hip touching the frigid rock formation as the adrenaline courses through his body with sudden vigor; he is aware of the many eyes settled upon him. A target. He had hoped to conceal the prowess of his power from his captor, but there is no longer any choice.
A wind manipulator (harnessing the powerful gusts that descend from the sweeping sea), he wields the thick of the atmosphere with a heavy toss of his neck, creating a nearly invisible orb of churning, rotating wind, before rearing onto his hindlegs and pounding his forelegs into the soil, splitting the orb into many, aiming to strike any that may come near him.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
The rocks fall together and everyone else tears apart. Normally, such chaotic mishap would discourage the shifter from coming near, but lately he’s been doing this thing called feeling and it’s gotten him twisted internally. Wyrm wakes every morning in a hot fever for … something. Something. That’s the best way he can think to put it. It drives him a little crazy and in the past he’s always dealt with crazy by submitting himself to more base instincts. What do they normally coin it? Letting yourself go.
So he does just that.
Too quick for mortal eyes he suddenly become visible to the rest of them, his camouflage snapping away to reveal a hulking, black mass. There are wings, assuredly, but of what nature no one can be quite sure. Some sort of mixture between dog, lion, goat and … god knows what. He flexes the rounded muscles of his back, cracks his spine and sends a clicking noise out among the others, a sense of echolocation for eyes that interpret heat and that particular ticking soundwave. A gust of wind ripples through the rest of the still air and slams him back against the stone wall, causing his legs to splay outward and grip the stone with paws that are made like a gecko’s and nails that certainly were not reptilian. He hisses, curls elfish ears back against his skull, and pushes himself off to rocket skyward.
From above he hovers and pins a certain creature for destruction: a hot-blooded mare with a stink that penetrates his nose and who seems to be garnishing help from another useless-looking creature. No matter, they could equally pay for making themselves such large targets. His whip-like tail curls underneath his belly and slides back out while the rest of his form rounds mid-air to point earthward for a nose-dive. Wyrm plummets, spirals to gain tight speed, and then dips up above the hard-packed earth to barrel towards them, yellow eyes bright with feverish anticipation.
With claws outstretched and a mouth open wide the shapeless hellcat of a horse is ready to unzip flesh from bone, no holding back, no regrets.
He rather likes this gladiator business.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
ooc: targeting City and Orion's Belt, hit by Canaan's wind burst
When Aten had first heard rumors of a potential all-out sparring match taking place in Nerine's territory, he'd been hesitant to participate at first. His main reason for this remained secret from everyone except for him and his leader. But knowing he could come here, to test his skills and find out what sorts of warriors existed in other kingdoms intrigued him. Even if it wasn't the normal type of reconnaissance, it'd be a chance to see how the stallion could hold up against others, whether they were older or younger, bigger or smaller, or had magical gifts like a few of his friends.
So, following the announcement and commencement of the match, Aten joined the others in the arena. He tensed up when the massive boulders that formed the edge of the arena closed in on the fighters, creating a sense of isolation from the outside world. This was really beginning to feel like a gladiator-style fight; almost as if no one could leave until one was left standing. He knew that probably wouldn't be the result, but it didn't ease the ominous feeling in his gut.
In addition to Aten himself, there were a total of ten fighters here, a few mares mixed among the powerful stallions. At this moment, the golden one held nothing but respect for them; it was brave of mares to engage in fighting of this magnitude, whether they were doing it to profess their skills, or get in some training like Aten himself had come here to do.
A large number of battle cries rang up from all the fighters, obviously eager for the match to begin. Aten let out one himself, just to make it seem like he was not intimidated by the others in the arena. When the moment finally came, the sound of thunder echoed through the arena as ten sets of hooves charged into the fray. Aten followed their lead, but wisely hung back to take in the others and see what he could handle.
Aten caught the movement of a white stallion shimmying up next to one of the few mares in the arena. It was obvious to him that either the stallion was going to protect her, or team up with her and take on the other fighters. Unless another joined in for the assault, he knew he couldn't handle both on his own, even if he outranked the mare in size and weight. The white stallion was an impressive sight himself; Aten knew that he probably ranked below the powerful fighter, whether he had more muscle mass or not.
Two other stallions, both a black tobiano in color and differing only in their build by breed, busied themselves in sparring each other. Aten left them alone; though they outranked him in height, he outtalked them in muscle mass, given he was an older age. If he chose to fight them later, then he would, but that was later. Right now, he was after an opponent who could fight on fair terms until the sparring escalated.
A thick gust of air blew threw the arena, nearly knocking Aten off balance. He looked to where it came from, noticing a golden stallion by the edge of the arena. Obviously he was one of the gifted, and Aten knew better than to take one of them on by himself. He'd need some help at least; that, and the golden one appeared to be a distance fighter. Aten would not mock him by saying he was a coward, but there was something to be said about those who chose to avoid real fighting and stayed on the sidelines when they could be helping those they cared for. Yes, this was a gladiator match, but Aten would have more respect for him if he actually got into the fray.
Still, he made a note to perhaps investigate that stallion later on, see where he came from. He'd noticed the mare who brought him here and threw him into the match. Maybe he could get some useful information out of the other golden-coated stallion.
Finally, Aten found another he could take on. A red-dun stallion was also in the middle of everything, one who just about matched Aten in height and weight. The other was a few inches taller than the golden stallion, but Aten, with his mother's lineage, sported a tall but compact build, making him seem a tad bit smaller than his sire. But being compact meant he had power behind him, something that he would use to his advantage.
Bypassing the wind user and doing his best to keep his balance despite the gale force breeze blowing through the arena, Aten charged the red dun stallion head-on. He galloped up until he was within mere inches of the stallion, practically tackling him over in the process. Aten threw his weight forward to try and catch the stallion off guard, his lips pulling back and revealing teeth that were aimed for the stallion's neck. Though not sharp like a predator, horses could use their teeth when needed and boy did it hurt when they broke skin. When he threw himself forward, the stallion also came off his front legs, his knee now poised to land a blow to the red dun's shoulder and breast bone if he did not move away.
OOC: After observing the rest and nearly being knocked off his hooves by Canaan, Aten went for Zenith. He is using his teeth to go for Zenith's neck while his knees are a backup strike to the stallion's shoulder.
Through despair and hope, Through faith and love. Till we find our place, on the path unwinding.
Chaos erupts. Zenith is caught off guard by the frenzy of the scene. Around him, -gladiators- attack and wheel as if their lives depended on it, screams and growls fill the air. The wind is fierce, whipping grit with force and he squeezes his lids shut over his emerald eyes. He takes this moment to cover his neck and chest entirely with his thick lion’s mane. He considers changing completely, but it was too difficult to spar as a big cat. With vicious claws and his lithe feline frame, it was blood or nothing - so he remains mostly equine. Middle ground was easier to achieve in this hulking clumsy form.
But his movements are anything but clumsy as he opens his eyes, already on the move. Beasts and nightmares cut through the tremulant air around him, but one (who is nearing so quickly) holds his gaze. The compact gold mustang gallops with reckless abandon, throwing himself towards Zenith– anything but subtle.
A for effort. But Zenith would not be tackled or caught off guard by such an onslaught. The charging stallion fully commits to his attack, blunt teeth flashing and his front legs rising from the ground.
Hmmm - He purrs, using the second he has been given to position himself before contact.
And there it is. The mustang had aimed for his neck and he strikes true. Aten’s face is nearly buried in his mane and Zenith hesitates, awaiting the solid connection of a bite.
His neck is supple and he does not slow at momentum of the other stallion – until he does.
Momentarily the two bodies flow together, until Zenith falls into a crouch, each of his movement flavored with a feline nimbleness. Every muscle across his frame tightens as he checks the heavier stallion’s momentum. He anticipates that the mustang hybrid (who only had two feet at most on the ground) will be caught off guard by his sudden change of direction, and gives a sharp shake of his thickly furred neck.
Feeling free of the brute, he spins quickly so his rear is facing the (hopefully stumbling or grounded) roan. He gathers his power in his haunches and strikes out quickly with solid back hooves. His ears are alert and eyes sparking – ready for more attacks from any direction.
ZENITH
@[Aten] Basically… whip lash and a swift kick to the arse.
life unfolds in pools of gold I am only owed this shape if I make a line to hold
Nerine, they had called it. The ocean he’d thrown himself into willingly (adoringly, almost) and been spat back out unbelievably intact and alive had a name. Not only did it have a name, it had people, leadership, a hierarchy – a kingdom for all intents and purposes. Buck had been dismayed to say the least. The old lands had been tossed around, melted, and molded into something completely different. There were pristine pine forests and winding, swirling rivers. There were new mountains with magma tops still cooling, exotic fruit trees he’s never encountered before – only a small offering of New Beqanna he had discovered on his way up the coastline. And what had they done with their blank slate? Greedily carved it into neat kingdoms as they had before.
The black and white tobiano concentrates, tamps the consternation down to where his feet dig into the sand. All he wants is the wild. All he longs for is the sea. He can smell it now, the trade winds wafting into the arena. But in order to stay, he knows he must pay his dues. It is an easy price, all things considered (he has sold his body and strength for less out on the uncivilized plains). It will be good to sharpen his skills and test his mettle, to dance a dance of instinct rather than familiar steps.
The boulders slide into place and the roar and smell of the ocean is blocked off.
Buckthorn faces his opponents. They are all men, save for one female that stands out amongst the fighters. And of the men, a few aren’t even; two of them are boys, really, and he wonders why they are here. The battle commences and it is madness, at first. Shouts pierce his ears and sand rises like a fog across the arena. He can still see the skirmishes (can still hear the pounding of flesh against flesh as bodies collide) but he can’t see an opening. Most of the fighters pair off and he is left standing alone (and he’s glad to see the boys pick each other). Buck rolls his shoulders in a shrug that becomes his first languid stride forward.
He moves across the field in search of a target as the wind starts. It blows by him quickly, his tail tangled and tossed by the end of it. The power of it was astonishing, like a concentrated burst of sea air brought down into the fighter pit as a weapon. With hurried eyes, the black tobiano looks directly forward and finds the source of the gale. He advances from there. The other male is pale and made paler by the shadows he immerses himself in. It doesn’t stop Buck from seeing him, though the waves of buffeting wind that hit him on his way over almost do. The sand nearly blinds him as the grit meets his eyes. He falls, at one point (the wind toppling him so that he falls hard on his side, his hip pulses with pain). But when he reaches the pegasus pressed against the barrier, he has enough strength to turn sharply away and aim a kick with his rear legs. Even with his smarting rear end, he hopes to connect along the other’s barrel – maybe knock some ribs around. Anything to stop that damn wind.
