Spar demolition woman (oizys vs ?)


 5  11.5  9  70 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Unicorn 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
605ʜs
HS

Oizys

Warrior of Mokosh



She marches through the desert, her body a mass of sweat from the searing heat and her lips foaming like a rabid dog. It is midday, the hottest time, and the Vesper sun has transformed the desert into an inferno. It is utterly foolhardy to fight in such conditions, yet that is exactly what Oizys intends to do.

The gargoyle is a warrior. She is forged from battle, hardened by combat, and she knows that to become the best soldier she can be, she needs to fight in as many different scenarios as possible. She has already fought in the freezing snow, and she won; it is time to go from one extreme to the other, and battle in the whirlwind of fire that is the desert.

A hot breeze billows the dust against her and she squints as she slides to a halt in her chosen arena. It is a large, flat plateau of fetlock-deep sand outlined with nothing but the occasional dead tree, and the sun overhead is a burning, potent orb. Oizys is ready, her new faceplate firmly encapsulating her head to deflect blows and her triple horns pointed forwards like vicious barbs of death. Overhead, she hears a savage, primal roar and flattens her ears as she glances up.

How could she have forgotten? She has a dragon now, as well as a shiny new faceplate. The faceplate is far preferred and much less trouble, and she shoots the silver dragon a look of utter disgust as he wheels above her with a dead rat held in his powerful jaws.

Since Moros forced his way into her mind, he has given Oizys nothing but trouble. He is willful, defiant, vicious and downright unpleasant; his thoughts are a constant pulse of hunger, dominance and hatred. He is a creature made of wrath and savagery - he is beautiful in his fury, with his gleaming silver scales and powerful wings, but that doesn't mean she likes him. She wants Ker, who she knows, who she loves; the loyal, eager eagle who would lay her life on the line for her gargoyle bonded. Would Moros do that, she wonders? Somehow she doubts it, although she wouldn't put it past him to tear into somebody under the guise of helping Oizys purely so he has an excuse to be a vicious little fucker.

"You're not getting involved in this," she tells him; she speaks aloud even though she does not need to, purely because she feels it gives the words more weight and he's more likely to obey. She is perfectly capable of fighting by herself, and does not need or want the dragon's help. Moros unleashes a loud, cruel cackle and swoops so low over his bonded's back that his ebony claws slide lazily across her withers, creating small, bloody grazes. He is already a big bastard of a dragon, long and tall and rippling with muscles, helping to add to his intimidating presence. Oizys turns, pins her ears and glares at him as he swoops back up into the sunny heavens, a law unto himself, and swallows his dead rat in one great gulp.

Still seething with annoyance, the scarred mare lifts her head and releases a booming cry for an opponent.


OOC:
Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 543
Attack: 0/3
Summary A very sweaty Ozzy and Moros wait for an opponent.
Tag: Anybody! @Leviathan in case you're interested ;D

image: dark





[Image: pixelcomm1_by_sourful-d9xka7y_zpsqamll7by.png]
PERMISSION FOR USE OF MAGIC & MINOR POWERPLAY ON OIZYS



 5  8.5  8.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Equine 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
1,055ʜs
HS

Melot

Warrior of Mokosh


when the fox hears the rabbit scream
he comes a-runnin'- but not to help

Skin shapes like clay beneath the cruelty of wear and abuse, the relentless bombardment of pressure and abrasion forging calluses over time, capable of withstanding even the roughest treatment- though the black hide stretched taut over pumping muscles is smooth, save for the darkened divots of old battle wounds, it is the beast's heart, beating frantically within his breast, that owns its fair share of dead, toughened flesh. Had it been this trodden organ exposed to the savagery of the desert elements, and not the susceptible skin and muscle which envelops it, perhaps he might have withstood the onslaught of Sun, wind and sand. Like a toad frozen in winter, he inwardly gibes, maw peeled back in a perpetual snarl as he vies for more oxygen than is currently filling his lungs with every scalding breath he takes. Black pelt reflects the eye of the sun like a midnight looking glass, thin fur slick with a sheen of sweat which plasters a tangled mane to the bunched muscles of the stallion's neck; his body weakens under the forced exertion in such extreme conditions, yet Melot continues to barrel across the wasteland all the same, compelled by a need to move, to see, to feel beyond the smothering embrace of the northern mountains. It isn't that he doesn't enjoy the place, particularly in the midst of such a militant troop, but his wanderlust swept in with a vengeance after his first week among the Mokosh, and he needed to follow his hooves lest he lose his mind- not that there was much left to lose up there, anyway.

He has no idea where it is he runs, whether or not these lands belong to one faction or another, nor how far it is exactly that he's come since his impromptu departure from the northern Vale. What he does know is that his marathon is about to be shelved in favour of gauging the area and locale, if possible. What precious irony, then, as hooves dig into the sand in a halt, that the formidable creature he spies in the near distance is recognizable, a face which belongs in the North as much as his own; he has never been formally acquainted with the tricorn mare, nor does he even know the woman's name, but her countenance is rather impossible to mistake, and he's immediately doubtless in regards to her identity- this was a Mokosh lass, drenched with as much sweat as he, loitering in a place that is very much not home for either.

Mismatched eyes scan the skies as great wings momentarily cast a shadow on the no-man's-land between them, Melot suspiciously glaring at the dragon for a time, before glancing back to the mare as she looses a bellow of war. Though the two ahead are on two separate halves of the horizon, he fathoms a guess that there is a link there, given the dragon hasn't descended on her with intent to kill as he ventures most feral beasts would. Swear on m' mother's grave, if that fucker comes down here f' me I'll eat this wench's tail. Muscles stiffen and flex in lieu of nervousness inspired by a foolish decision he is on the brink of making. Then, with an internal wince, he brays a challenge of his own, aiming to grab her attention before hooves pummel the earth in a swift lunge back into motion. Again, eyes are cast above to survey the dragon's behaviour, attempting to discern whether the being would be a threat in this brawl, though at this point, as he thunders closer to Oizys, Melot accepts the fact that he's dug his grave and that if need be, he'd be fighting a dragon today.

Seconds seem to last an age as he closes in, approaching in such a way that he hopes to come at her from the right side, drifting into a roundabout sprint should she try to face him directly. Fifteen yards. Ten. Five. Three. "Yo." At the last moment he skirts to the left, towards her rump at an angle, and drives his hind hooves down heavily at the end of their last steps, deep into the shifting sand to ensure solid footing. In the same instant Melot propels his forehand up with a push so that he's rearing, hooves flailing outwardly in an attempt to land a blow or two to the tender area between the thigh and barrel, or lower if his mark is off. He's half-expecting the draconid to swoop in for the kill, and steels himself for the mouthful of dirt he might be about to enjoy. Th' fuck did I come here for, again?

"Speech." || Tagged: @Oizys
Manip by Lunarblues, table by Formaldehyde


MELOT

Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 780
Attack: 1/3
Summary: Melot approaches Oizys from her right side at a sprint, deeking to the left when he's close so that his forehand is facing her hip at an angle. He rears, using the momentum of his run to add force, and tries to kick her thigh/hip/lower barrel with his front hooves.
Tag: @Oizys




 5  11.5  9  70 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Unicorn 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
605ʜs
HS

Oizys

Warrior of Mokosh



During her last fight, Kid took her by surprise. He charged behind her and landed a hearty blow upon her shoulder before she had chance to react, and she is careful not to allow the same thing to happen this time; her cold grey gaze darts around, ensuring all directions are covered. She has Moros now, who should warn her about any approaching attackers as Ker would have done, but Oizys wouldn't put it past the silver drake to purposely withhold useful information just for shits and giggles.

Fortunately, this time her opponent does not attempt to sneak up on her. He bugles his own war-cry, and the bitch squints through the heat haze towards the creator of the noise. She knows him by face, if not by name; he is Mokoshian. The fight immediately takes on a new level of importance, because he is a herdmate and she categorically does not want to make a tit of herself in front of him.

Immediately she slides into battle-mode, professional and determined, and begins to examine him in the clinical, matter-of-fact way she always does prior to a fight. He is the same height as her, built very similarly; they are both creatures of power and muscle, sacrificing maneuvrebility in favour of sheer brute strength. They should both suffer equally in these harsh conditions, with their great bulk sinking into the devouring sand and their large surface areas creating a breeding ground for sweat. Oizys notes that he is black, which might cause him to attract the sun slightly more than her; regardless, this would present only the tiniest of advantages to her, as otherwise they are very well-matched.

In the sky above, Moros unleashes a savage scream. It is a primal, bestial sound that shakes Oizys to her core, and for the first time she is glad that he is on her side and not Melot's. She is not expecting him to help her - hell, she'd rather he didn't - but she would far rather have him as an unwanted friend than a hateful enemy.

The stallion charges towards her, and she pivots to face him; he'd started his run from far enough away that she has ample time to move. Her muscles tense and her head lowers in preparation to react to anything he might throw at her; at the last moment he darts to his left, rearing up and flailing his forelegs towards her. Oizys tries to move backwards out of the way, but her hooves stumble in the thick, burning sand. She is unable to shift away in time, and his hooves clatter hard into the right side of her chest. The gargoyle is forced to grit her teeth to smother a bellow of pain as a deep, agonising bruise erupts where his hooves struck near the top of her chest, tensing the muscles and radiating torment through her entire front right side. Shit. It's a hell of a heavy wound to take so early on in the battle, and will restrict the harlot's movement for the rest of the spar.

Her eyes flash, feeling a blossom of anger at her own stupidity. Rather than rebelling against the spark of rage, Oizys embraces it, uses it to fuel her body and heighten her senses. She fights better when she's mad, channeling an inner berserker that adds steel to each blow and lines her veins with iron.

Moros detects his bonded's emotional change, and howls with joy. He's not yet witnessed her when she's fighting, when she's the embodiment of fury and splendour and wrath. For the first time he can truly feel the potential he saw when he chose to bond with her; perhaps she is worthy of a royal dragon after all.

Oizys lurches to her right, hoping to bring herself to fully face the male. Her jaws shoot powerfully forwards and she attempts to bite hard on the tip of his nose, her favourite attack, but as always it's merely a disguise for her real intention. Her right foreleg lifts from the sand (a decision she makes so she does not have to bear her weight on it) and flicks forwards, seeking to smack the hoof into Melot's left foreleg just below the knee joint. She purposefully does not aim for the joint so as not to disable him permanently should she hit - it would be foolish to maim another warrior of her herd during a friendly spar - however she certainly hopes to inflict a painful enough injury to affect him for the rest of the battle. Her hope is that he's so distracted by the bite attempt to his nose he won't notice her far more dangerous attack slipping beneath the radar.


OOC:
Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 787
Attack: 1/3
Summary His hooves clatter on the right side of her chest, she tries to bite his nose and kick his left foreleg just below the knee.
Tag: @Melot

image: dark



 5  8.5  8.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Equine 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
1,055ʜs
HS

Melot

Warrior of Mokosh


when the fox hears the rabbit scream
he comes a-runnin'- but not to help

Melot is no mind-reader, nor could the stallion claim to be anything close to an empath, but judging by the impassioned cry which cracks from above like thunder, he's confidently aware of the fervor which overtakes the mare he's assaulted, her companion's excitement feeding him all the information he needs. Yeah, yeah- fuck you too! To accompany sour thoughts, there's a sneer on his pallid lips, black freckles contorting as the flesh of his muzzle scrunches in response to the dragon's obnoxious jeering. He still expects the monster to descend from the heavens and send him flying to next season, and in an ill-thought attempt to keep tabs on the dragon's whereabouts, his attention is broken from Oizys at a critical moment.

With eyes on the skies, he only catches the retaliation in peripherals, a mistake which sacrifices his chance to evade. Reflexively flinching from the lash of blunt teeth which snap aggressively at the velveteen of his nose, Melot lands his forehand heavily, hooves sinking back into the blazing sand as he balks; the instinctive avoidance doesn't save him from the angry woman's maw, as the sensitive skin is nipped, a blood blister rapidly forming between flaring nostrils. A pained snort escapes the ill-tempered soldier in a huff, and as he casts his skull into the air to avoid further damage to the money-maker, he experiences a stab of pain which lances from his lower left foreleg up into his chest. Rage and indignance broil into a chaotic eruption within the hollow of his gut, Melot unleashing a guttural bray, pivoting to the left and away from her, the foreleg which took the blow hefted up against his person like a wounded dog with a limp- but in a surge of adrenaline and a deep-set refusal to be laid low in the first few seconds of a row, Melot grits his teeth and forces himself into a lope, albeit with an uneven gait to recoup for his compromised leg.

Fat cow can kick! It's in his vindictive nature to name-call, even if only in his mind; still, the better side of the splashed black beast reckons he'd have to put a name to his herdmate's face sooner or later. Preferably later.

In the meantime he rounds his nameless foe, careful not to put too much pressure on his weakened leg as he eyes this approach and that, guardedly considering the best decision given the triple-horned lass is clearly not easily duped, very much less so overpowered; this is a risky game he's thrown himself into, and he's got to follow the momentum through to its bloody end. Just don't sick your over-sized dog on me.

Silver and blue sights latch on Oizys' left shoulder, having now circled behind to come at her at an angle from the left side; there's an inclination to whip around when he's close enough, to perhaps throw his head down and send his hind hooves flying towards her barrel to wind or gouge her. Ah, but once again, logic wins over when he reasons that piling the majority of his weight onto his still-aching foreleg is a predictable track to a face-plant, or at the very least more bruising, one that would tax him beyond the labours of this fight. No, this round he plays it safe, and if he must resort to causing his own leg a further slight, it'd be towards the end of their little duel, when a crash wouldn't cost him the remainder of his chances- just his dignity.

It feels like an age, but in only a matter of seconds the half-mustang is on the offensive, mouth slavering foam in the wake of the scouring heat, diving like a madman hungering for flesh. An aggressive squeal peels from the back of his throat, an intentional warning of his second attack, meant to 'give him away', but rather than following-up by sending his teeth or hooves towards her, the stallion's chin abruptly tucks into his neck and tilts out of the way, the edge of his shoulder aiming to land a hit instead. It's a full broadside attempt, nearly parallel, one that, should it land, would connect primarily with the vulnerable conjunction of shoulder and barrel, and maybe crush their sides together. With any luck, it would not only wind the mare, but possibly send her off-balance, enough to grant him time to put distance between them before her inevitably violent rebuttal. Standing near her, he would have laughed at how small she manages to make him feel, in spite of the similarity in their height, were he not engrossed in overcoming the pain in his leg, and the itch for achieving victory. Practically steaming from the touch of the Sun, he pants through clenched teeth, "Tag, you're it."

"Speech." || Tagged: @Oizys
Manip by Lunarblues, table by Formaldehyde


MELOT

Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 799
Attack: 2/3
Summary: Melot takes a nip to the nose and a bad kick to the shin, pulls away to the left and awkwardly lopes around her hind (at a safe distance), coming up on her left side to try and bodycheck her shoulder-first into the spot where her shoulder muscles meet her side/barrel.
Tag: @Oizys




 5  11.5  9  70 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Unicorn 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
605ʜs
HS

Oizys

Warrior of Mokosh



Her attack lands with middling success, and a thrill of pleasure bursts like a dying star through her body. The sheer bloody glory of striking an opponent creates an eruption of joy that the bitch cannot quite describe. If she was slightly more experienced in the bedroom, she would compare the thrill of battle to the wondrous sensation of intercourse. The rush, the euphoria, the sweet release when a carefully-calculated attack finds its mark and leaves its indelible brand upon the hide of another - yes, it is almost sexual, and the mare is unashamed of the shudder of ecstasy that sears through her.

It is shortlived, however, as her bruised and battered chest reminds her that battle is not all pleasure and pride. No, it can be painful, sweaty, frustrating, exhausting and even downright dangerous, and Oizys knows that she must become a master of her craft if she is to ensure she is able to enjoy it as it deserves to be enjoyed. If she does not bathe in the blood of her enemies and savour every single hit, every well-worked dodge, every uproarious victory and every crushing defeat, then she does not deserve to call herself a warrior.

She wonders if Melot thinks the same - if he, too, is currently experiencing the level of irresistible joy that she is. She is hot, steaming, aching and tired, but dammit, she's never felt more alive.

A squeal peels from the stallion's lips, and Oizys's ears flatten into the roiling storm of her mane. Whenever a sound like that is emitted in a fight, it's generally a distraction tactic, as a warrior rarely shows their pain in the form of a vocalisation. Her suspicions piqued, she follows him with her frosty gaze, choosing to stand where she is rather than turn on the spot; not through choice, but because she is trying to limit how much unnecessary movement she does in this overwhelming heat. It would be a clever tactic for him to circle her in an attempt to tire her out by making her pivot and by causing the muscles in her wounded chest to work harder than they need to, and she's determined not to fall for it.

He lunges towards her left side, and with a grunt of exertion she sidesteps to her right. His shoulder slams into the region where her left foreleg joins her body, although courtesy of her pre-emptive movement, it does not hit with quite the impact he had probably intended. Rather than stand and resist the blow, Oizys allows herself to be pushed to the right, using every ounce of her brainpower to co-ordinate her legs and prevent herself stumbling. He causes a medium-sized bruise to erupt just behind the thick muscles of her left shoulder, and she feels yet another burst of stiffness at the force of the blow. Fuck, it hurts, and a feral growl erupts from her clenched jaws.

Summoning her resolve - and doing her best to ignore Moros's chuckles of delight at her plight - the mare uses the residual momentum of Melot's shove to fling her hindquarters to the right and her forequarters to the left. She hopes to pivot around fully and face him, not liking the vulnerability of having him near her sides, and in the same motion she performs her attack.

Despite her selfish and devious nature, the bitch is quite a fair fighter. She'd been utterly disgusted at Kid's use of an energy-draining potion in her previous fight, and she generally does not lower herself to dirty tactics in order to win. On this occasion, however, she has a plan. Remembering how livid she'd been at what she considered cheating by Kid and how she'd thrown caution to the wind to try and smash him into oblivion as punishment, she hopes to rile Melot up enough by foul play that he will hopefully lower his guard and make mistakes.

To that end, the steel soldier throws her weight to her uninjured hindquarters and lifts into a rear. As she does so, she scoops her forehooves deep into the hot sand and flicks them upwards, attempting to kick the stinging, burning grains into the stallion's face and eyes. Underhand? Yes. Effective? Hopefully.

Following through with her movement, the mare flails her forelegs towards Melot's face, aiming to kick him in the head. She puts just enough force into the attack to hopefully knock him out cold if she hits, but not enough to fracture his skull or kill him. That would just be mean. Using sand in such a way feels dirty and cowardly, but Oizys chooses to see it as hell-bent determination to win at any cost.


OOC:
Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 782
Attack: 2/3
Summary Takes the slam to her left shoulder, spins around to try and face him, and rears up to try and flick sand in his eyes and kick him in the head.
Tag: @Melot

image: dark



 5  8.5  8.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Equine 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
1,055ʜs
HS

Melot

Warrior of Mokosh


Crowded streets are cleared away one by one

Melot anticipates Oizys will reposition in some way, using those broad shoulders and meet him halfway in order to mitigate the severity of his assault, but he's pleasantly surprised: like a seasoned boxer, she rolls with the proverbial punch, allowing his body to force her own to the side without being jostled into imbalance. Not bad... She executes a pivot using his own momentum to her advantage, and before he knows it, their bodies, each lathered in sweat, are facing each other. Immediately he heeds his instincts, a warning of danger in being face-to-face.

The indomitable gray is fast enough to take the painted stallion off guard, but not enough to catch him in inaction; by the time her hooves have dug themselves into the scalding sands, Melot has flung his vulnerable face up and away to the right, leaning in that direction to save his wounded leg the pressure. Hind hooves dig deep into the pliant sands much like her own, the force he uses to evade right-wise serving to slow him more than anything, as ground gives way; in the split-second he fails to bolt, Oizys rears, violently flinging a shovel's worth of sand at him. Thankfully, he'd shied away beforehand, starting a beleaguered getaway after his own pivot, thus the sand strikes his left cheek, narrowly missing blinding him- though that's not to say hot grit doesn't embed itself in the sensitive area. He emits a furious snort, jaws parting like a beast ready to tear into its offender, before bellowing, "Y' fuckin' cunt!" It's not beyond him that foul play could occur, especially considering he still expects the dragon to attack, but the fact is he's pissed he didn't think of it first. Rat-ass bitch! In his surge of indignation, Melot fails to see her true weapon until he's finally gained traction, and about to put distance between them. Her hooves flail with punishing might, clocking him ruthlessly at the conjunction of neck and shoulder, and he has no defense to prevent nor avoid the blow in full. Thus, it sends him awkwardly further to the right than intended, and with an ugly, painful bruising to boot. He can't tell in the moment if he's in awe of the below-the-belt tactic, or stunned by his own mistakes,making him question his own competence. You're a genius, y' moron, he inwardly gripes as he bounds away, heavily compensating for one now very achy foreleg. Gonna have a kink in my neck for weeks.

No more games- the bald-faced northerner is through with this battle and the relentless heat which plagues his flesh like a flame lit on oil, and how it makes even breathing troublesome; win or lose, he's giving his last, so she may give hers, and they can retreat to the pleasant cold of home. Having once again put room between them, a couple yards at most, he slows to a limping trot, circling to her left side again. "Y' fight like someone who's afraid they'll lose." His voice is low, parched from the desert Sun, but he manages to speak just loud enough to be heard. It's a taunt, in a sense, but the bastard's anything but silver-tongued. In his eyes, she's grasping at straws in this fight, whilst he is entirely willing to lose- not necessarily with good grace, nor is it his intention, but all the same, mismatched eyes observe the off-black woman and see pride greater than his own. Now that is an accomplishment, even he'd have to concede. Cold eyes stare her down- with one eye on the sky, always. Even if it has grit in it and is watering. Those aren't tears, really.

Then, he realizes he really doesn't give a shit about his poor leg, at the moment. If he's gonna go home with a limp, it might as well have been for something worthwhile. Abruptly he darts to his left, this time facing the mare's own left side head-on, or should she turn towards him, face-to-face yet again. With the small amount of distance to close in, it takes a couple seconds for him to reach her, though his limping makes it less intimidating of an approach. At the last heartbeat, as it seems his chest is about to collide with her, he turns right, planting his forehand firmly into the shifting sands as well as he can, and kicks his hind legs out in an attempt to send them low, either at her foreleg, barrel, or should she have turned with him, her elbow or shoulder. With no eyes on his ass it's hard to aim with any accuracy, but as pain lances up his foreleg and forces him back to all fours, he can only hope his attack hit something of his opponent.

Hallowed heroes separate as they run


"Speech." || Tagged: --
Manip by Malrymoo, table by Formaldehyde

Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 799 again ajhgj
Attack: 3/3
Summary: Melot gets punched in the neck/shoulder on his left side, after getting some sand tossed at his face.
He circles to her left, shoulder facing shoulder, then charges at her, pivoting to the right at the last minute and giving a double barrel kick at her foreleg/side.
Tag: @Oizys




 5  11.5  9  70 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Unicorn 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
605ʜs
HS

Oizys

Warrior of Mokosh



The snort he emits is a cacophony of fury and indignation, and Oizys feels a surge of dirty pride. It's working, she thinks, and this is confirmed by the most vulgar language that follows. A smirk flashes its way across her face, another clear attempt at taunting him and causing him to lower his guard. "Language," she gently scolds, her voice a patronising coo. Come on....lose that temper just a liiiiiiittle bit more....

She does feel slightly guilty about her actions, but she tells herself that what happens on the battlefield stays on the battlefield. She won't hold any grudges against him for anything he's done, and she hopes he will see it the same way. They're herdmates, after all, and they are both warriors; they should both understand the indomitable will to win, the desire to best any challenge that's set before them, by any means necessary.

The gargoyle's hooves connect with his neck rather than his head, but it's better than nothing. She is flagging now, the searing heat taking its toll on her stamina and strength, and the relentless pulse of her wounds just serves to tire her further. The battle is nearly over, and Oizys knows she does not have to maintain this supreme level of effort for much longer. Just one last push.

His next words cause her ears to flatten crossly, and it takes a great deal of self-control not to allow her temper to rise. She can't fall for her own tricks, even if she is slightly offended that he thinks a dauntless desire to emerge victorious is a bad thing. "Saltiness doesn't suit you, sweetie," she purrs, feeling rather sick at how nasty she's being. She will apologise for this later, she decides; she means him no ill-will, she's merely trying to provoke him as much as possible to give herself the best chance at winning.

In the meantime, he's pivoted around to her left side, and with a bestial snarl of pain Oizys turns on the spot so she's facing him. She can't allow him to have a free shot at her sides again, and at least if he's aiming towards her chest, she can see what he's doing and work out how to avoid it. He twirls like a ballet dancer upon the sands and his hind hooves sprawl out towards her; the mare is so exhausted she can barely hobble backwards, but she manages to do so just enough to lessen the brutal impact of his feet upon the centre of her chest. Mercifully it hits just next to the first wound there, but it still succeeds in stiffening and bruising the region and causing immense pain. She can't help it; she groans, knowing that her movement will be considerably handicapped for the rest of the fight and for several days afterwards.

Above her, Moros has had enough of watching idly. He does not want to help out of empathy for his bonded, but because he is a demonic creature who revels in the application of pain; this is the perfect opportunity for him to utilise his strength upon an adult horse.

Like a silver angel of death, he descends. For once he is silent, hoping to take the stallion by surprise as he swoops from behind Oizys towards Melot's back. Oizys can do nothing but watch as the monstrous drake summons the magic that exists deep within his bones, blasting it like a wave of cursed energy towards the stallion. The soldier does not know that it is a jinx with the ability to paralyze; she does know that this is her last chance to land a meaningful blow upon her opponent, so she steels her resolve and lurches awkwardly forwards at the same time as Moros attacks. For the first time, mare and dragon are working together, albeit unintentionally. They are splendour and power combined; he is all feral, unrestrained savagery, whilst she is wrath and determination and sheer unyielding desire.

The hot sand feels as though it is pulling at her aching, exhausted limbs and her bruised, battered body begs for mercy, but she draws upon her last vestiges of strength to try and approach the male from behind in the aftermath of his kick. Her jaws reach out, attempting to plant a hard bite upon his dock, whilst her left foreleg flicks forward to try and kick at the back of his left hind leg just below his hock.

Overall, it has been a fine and evenly matched battle; Oizys only hopes that she has done enough to emerge victorious, or at least not lose too badly.


OOC:
Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 772
Attack: 3/3
Summary Takes a kick to the chest. Moros uses the Nervorum Jinx (Paralyses their bonded's opponent for one post. (-3 opponent defence 1 roll)) on Melot whilst Oizys tries to bite the dock of his tail and kick at his back left leg. Thanks for a fun fight Formie :D
Tag: @Melot

image: dark



 5  8.5  8.5  65 
ATKDEFDAMHP
 Equine 
SPECIES
 Novice 
BUFF
1,055ʜs
HS

Melot

Warrior of Mokosh


when the fox hears the rabbit scream
he comes a-runnin'- but not to help

The harpy note of condescension the mare utters earns a reactive pinning of the ears, though in truth, Melot is far more humoured by the chiding than he exudes. It's not entirely rare to come across fellow warriors who sport a good-natured sense of appreciation and blasé over what's said and done in the arena, but for the splashed black stallion, it's not something he's used to- or like to become used to anytime soon; years of bitter fighting and betrayal have left a stagnating moral compass which oft leads the wayward soul to expect the blackest, foulest parts of another to come into conflict with his own when blows are exchanged. Thankfully, in this case the cogs of his mind need only work so long, before her patronizing snipes are forgotten in the wake of an alarmingly large shadow darting across the sand they duel upon. Instantly Melot's eyes peer upwards into the sky, and despite the tremor of panic which manifests in the taut muscles of his tiring limbs, the star-crossed male is anything but surprised. What took y' so long, dickhead? He hasn't the capacity nor the reflexes in the moment to taunt the beast out loud as he swoops towards him, the bald-faced Equine stirred into motion in a quiet attempt to leap out of the way.

It's then that he feels his muscles sing as they seize, his form suddenly cemented into a crippling vice that he cannot see; Melot releases a guttural roar, the kind one only makes when looking death in the eye with no control over the situation, but it's cut short as he stiffens to the point of immobility. Now this shit is just ridiculous. Silver and blue eyes wild, the freckled stallion is forced to behave for the gargoyle's final attack with no way to express his fury nor embarrassment save for the wrinkles of his nose and brow, frozen in time. Inwardly bracing for whatever impact may come, Melot makes a personal vow to drill his herdmate with questions in the future about her obnoxious draconic companion, and how to get one- or to kill one. Maybe both. Rage-induced attempts to tear his muscles free of the paralysis are fruitless, and though he uses all his might, there is no outward sign of his struggle. The Mokoshi is helpless, and when Oizys closes the pitiful amount of distance he'd gotten between them, all he can do is internally flinch and grit those proverbial teeth, as pain lances up from the dock of his tail and subsequently rings like a bell through the marrow of his hind leg's very bones.

It's a few seconds later, once both of his impromptu opponents have withdrawn from an uncomfortable proximity and it's clear the adrenaline has spread thin, that the warrior's body melts back into life. With muscles working and nerves allowed the benefit of his returned circulation, the pain of his hind end only reams that much worse, milk-white nostrils flaring heatedly in cranky impatience. Still harried by his foreleg the most, he doesn't make even the slightest move to leave the area just yet- if he didn't rest, the awful climate aside, he'd expire. "You fuckin' fox. Sly..." Caught between a praise and a jab, the words are slurred and croaked amidst exhausted panting.

"Speech." || Tagged: --
Manip by Lunarblues, table by Formaldehyde


MELOT

Setting: Sand Sea of Lamentations in Dirtharest Desert
Words: 553
Attack: Closing Defense
Summary: Melot gets jynxed and is paralyzed mid-run, Oizys bites his butt and kicks his leg, ow :c
Tag: @Oizys




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