[Deleted]

Name- Lethare/Erathel
Breed- Fjord
Age- 6 years
Gender- male
Height- 14 hands
Alliance- Light
Health- 100%

Sunlight streamed down upon the baked earth, though the rays were strong, heating the landscape quickly to an almost blistering point, there was still a slight chill upon the atmosphere. The ever hanging threat that fall was quickly approaching, and before they knew it, Winter would grasp the landscape within its cold, cruel fingers, and bring everything into its icy grip. However for the moment there was no worry about the cool fingers of Winter, as the heat baked landscape seemed to ripple into the atmosphere, the waves of sunlight floating above the landscape, causing a mirage of a large body of water to be cast upon the horizon. The lone figured strode forward easily, the thick coils of muscle rippled beneath the golden toned flesh, exaggerated by the smaller stature of the mature stag. Standing at only fourteen hands tall, the outside world like to think of him as a joke, as someone that should be cast aside because of his small stature, especially now amongst a land of equines that seemed to tower above him, however he was going to prove that stereo type was not going to be thrust upon him. He had learned to adapt with his short stature, had learned how to use it, not necessarily to his advantage, but how to overcome it. He did not allow his small stature hold him back from achieving whatever he set his sights upon, and today would be no different from the rest.

Steel daggers pressed into the baked earth, splintering the already fragmented soil beneath his flattened dinner plates, crumbling them to nothing more than dust, kicking it around his limbs in small plumes. Sweat began to collect upon the crevices of his coils, between his thighs, and along the lines of his shoulder blades. The amarillo sphere that held upon the aqua tinted heavens beating down upon the behemoth with little concern, and the barren sky offered no shelter from the blistering heat. Crimson pools fluttered upon the ivory littered landscape, allowing the figures of those past, their bones bleached and picked clean, to enter his gaze, taking in the details of those that had lost their lives upon this very soil. Curiosity lightly mingled within the folds of his cerebellum. Did they lose honorably? Or were they cut down? Were they part of the swing that walked upon the earth calling themselves the darks? Or worse, past healkers? Were they part of the Versai cut down in their mission to try and stop the spread of violence instilled by the dark alliance and the brotherhood? All these questions swirled around his dome piece, flooding his thoughts as he was intrigued to know the answers, though he knew there would never be answers to such. These bones were no more than a reminder anymore, a reminder as to what can happen if you do not keep upon your toes, do not give yourself to your knowledge and not allow yourself to be sucked into the devastating impacts of negligence upon your own part.

However he had been calculative upon his actions bringing him to these very lands, he had planned out each action in accurate detail, though there had been a minor change, it had done little to disrupt him in his goal. He had placed a steal, attempting to steal another one of the brother hood right out from beneath their commanders’ nose. However this time someone had been prepared, Exodus had been his name, swift to block his lead Wright Spyder, and because of this Erathel had decided he wanted to prove a point. Not only for the shorter equines out there faced with the daunting task of a big equine world, but as a Versai member. They were no longer going to be taken for granted, too long had the Versai sat dormant, taking blow and beating from the Healker brotherhood. Well no more, and Erathel was going to make sure that everybody got the message. The Versai were no longer equines to taken lightly. They were just as strong, if not stronger then the Healkers.

Daggers pressed down upon the landscape, drawing the stout fjord stallion forward with ease, as he shifted into position. There was a small ‘clearing’ in a sense, one that was not littered with bones or branches, where the ground was fairly flat and even. A perfect area for the match, a place where it would be all skill and smarts, no outward factors to put into it, well except the heat and the dust perhaps, but those were beyond his control. The bay dun behemoth made himself comfortable, relaxing his thick frame, allowing his body to unwind. He did not expect this Wright Spyder character to make his appearance quickly, no he figured he would saunter his way in, taking his sweet time. It was something that Erathel was perfectly okay with. The longer he took, the longer that the fjord beast got to rest, relax, and prepare mentally. When he had originally made the challenge, he had challenged Exodus, the behemoth whom had blocked Spyder, however the raven toned behemoth had decided he wanted to take the challenge personally. It was something that Erathel had not really cared about, he was not here to worry about who he fought, but that he won, that he showed that the Versai were going to be coming back stronger than ever. Should he loose, he would take his punishment harshly, and would make sure to learn from his mistakes, and never do it again. Crimson pools were drawn upon the heavens, letting their gaze lock upon the pale aqua skies. Silently he sent up a prayer, allowing his mind to be consumed with the warmth that bloomed within his heart. Watch down upon me, dearest Arabell. Give me your blessing and grace, so that I may protect those from the fate that befell you.


STATUS: complete
WORD COUNT: 986
MUSE: decent
MUSIC: none
LYRICS: none
TAGGED: azzy
NOTES: first post ever with him woot! lol and spyder would know him as Lethare <3

ATTACKS: four
DODGES: two
RULES: 4 hits and 2 dodges. 5 day reply limit. Should Erathel Win Spyder becomes his prisoner for the total of one completed thread. Should Spyder win, Erathel becomes slave to spyder for one completed thread
No Word Limit.

staff edit: image removed due to no credits on the table image.

[A z z y]

Name- The Surgeon/ Wight Spyder
Breed- Thoroughbred x Andalusian x Holstein x Shire x Arab
Age- 9 years
Gender- male
Height- 18.2 hands
Alliance- Dark
Health - 100%


The behemoth moved silently, his red globules scanned the topography, unsure of exactly where his destination was meant to be. It had been an odd twist of events for the leviathan, he had set up the triple entente, but had allowed the power to go mainly to Exodus, deciding he had bigger fish taking in apprentice's as it were. A few had potential, others...well they just wanted the glory, but most had the empathy he did not. Word had traveled that he was to fight his new found enemy, the chitter chatter of the birds echoed over the winds, seeping through the trees, a battle of dark against light, good versus pure evil. A worthy adversary? It would seem he had an advantage in many ways, age, experience...height. Clearing him by four hands and a few extra inches on top. A short gladiator, dun in hue but a brother of the Versai no less. The Surgeon silently nosed open the rusted iron gates of Atro City, leaving the cosy incarceration of his home lands, knowing full well Exodus would be keeping a close eye on things at hand in his absence. The atramentous deviant wandered forwards, the tendrils of translucent mist grappled at his hocks, dragging him in vain to a doom unlike many others. It had been almost a year since he had found Hollywood's crumpled corpse at the bottom of the main stair case, her claret blood enhancing the faded crimson of the carpet that ran throughout the main entrance of the ward. Where he had once felt loss and remorse, the grief that putrified his stoic blood had been purified and he had come to grips with the reasons she had been lying there.

The Surgeon had blocked it out, another traumatic event pushed to the back of his mind until he was ready to accept it. In a fit of rage he had pushed her, her golden body fluttering down like a feather from a golden angel. He hadn't comprehended the noise her bones made as they snapped on every step, how her blood pooled and gurgled in squirts and bursts from her wounds. But mostly, how her head was twisted around unnaturally and facing him, her open eyes unseeing as he fled her. The Surgeon had used it to fuel his feud against Under Oath, blaming him for her untimely demise. Slicing his tendrils against his hide, he spurred himself into a steady thrice beat, pushing her from his mind as he arched his nape, pressing his chin to his chest. The sociopath did not feel humiliation nor empathy, he would tear this warrior apart, either in battle or outside, he would refuse to fight clean. Gargantuan mass moved steadily and silently throughout the topography, stretching limbs to loosen him, swinging through his backs and hips, lowering his nape then drawing it back in, warming himself through. The Surgeon knew the importance of maintaining a good physical appearance, and how fatigue would decrease his chances of taking home the title of Victor. Smirking, he pushed onwards, thundering through a small river, he turned back over his shoulder, halting for a moment as the sun bore down upon his frame. He couldn't deny the intensifying heat that was placed upon him, so simply took the opportunity to cool down, knowing the sun would soon dry him in this intensity.

Once bathed, he entered the unmistakable of battle grounds, the bones of the fallen splintered and strewn across the barren waste lands. The Surgeon arched his nape once more, picking up a lofty thrice beat as he powered forwards, salivating slightly. It was then a lone whimper caught his attention and he halted suddenly, listening til the noise hit him again, within seconds he heard it and turned silently on his daggers to find the source of such a pitiful cry. It didn't take long to find her, a previous loser of another battle, her hind legs demolished, lying in her own blood. The Surgeon paid no attention to her pleas, or cries for help and mercy. In one simple movement, he was pulling his fore dagger from her cranium, lowering his mug to the grey matter and muscle that lined her now open facade, dentals grinding and moving the flesh to the back of his chasm, his salmon pink tongue escaping his velvet kissers, drawing her blood into his mouth, mixing it with his fluids before leaving the crime silently. Returning to his original path, he resumed his thrice beat, detecting the only live scent in the lands and following it until he found his gladiator.

A noble space had been chosen by the duke who stood so idly, so foolishly still on the edge. He appeared smaller in real life, yet The Surgeon was yet to make himself known to the duke, remaining down wind, simply observing the naive brute. Chuckling, he moved silently into his view, the large mass of the helkaer lieutenant seeming to almost merge from the shadows of the timbers that surrounded them, his nape arched, ferocious red voids locked onto the petite demon, his facade a mixture of acid and anger, ready to rip the smaller, less experienced adversary apart. Halting opposite him, he turned his figure too languidly stand squarely in front of him, his blood spattered fore limbs planted in the cracking topography. No weapons, no assistance from nature, just the honest skill set of each individual. Apart from the dust, a weapon he would not use first, simply out of good manners.


"Lethare, I presume?"


Cold words of recognition escaped his blood hued labrets, the only other colour apart from the intangible black that he was stained with. Syllables dripped with sarcasm, knowing full well it was Lethare that stood before him, the same Lethare that had stolen him from Exodus, the same Lethare who foolishly took up this challenge, this battle of wills. Slicing his tendrils against himself, he waited, observing the petite male before him, a maniacal leer dissected his facade as he stifled a chuckle, waiting for the unpolished golden boy to attack, allowing him the first move this one time, under the judgment of the relentless sun.

STATUS: complete
WORD COUNT: 1041
MUSE: decent
MUSIC: rammstein & marilyn manson
TAGGED: shorty
NOTES: Gah, its terrible Lethare may call him whichever he wants, The Surgeon doesn't take the name rule very seriously...

ATTACKS: four
DODGES: two
RULES: 4 hits and 2 dodges. 5 day reply limit. Should Erathel Win Spyder becomes his prisoner for the total of one completed thread. Should Spyder win, Erathel becomes slave to spyder for one completed thread
No Word Limit.

staff edit: image removed due to no credits on the table image.

[/blockquote]
[/a][/div][/div]

[Deleted]

-just posting to say that I am extending the limit for as long as Azzy needs since she is out of a computer atm <3-

[A z z y]

ooc; completed shorty. thank you for the extra time. i do now have a temp laptop that im using for college work, but hoping to use it for posts as well <3

[Deleted]

Name - Lethare/Erathel[/col
Breed - Fjord
Age - 6 years
Gender - Male
Height - 14 hands
Alliance - Light
Health - 100%


Raven and granite hued locks fluttered behind the gold kissed brute, fluttering lightly as a slight and delicate breeze shifted through the domain, bringing with it the musky scents of fall, though faint, could distinctly be scented, coming down from the north, from the woods that so many went to conceive, bringing forth the new life that would sustain the wild equine population. Blood stained pools flickered, momentarily landing upon the northern horizon, though the woods were beneath the horizon line, it still caused a stir within his cerebellum, though he did not allow his thoughts to linger long. It was not the time to focus upon his own fruits, nor was it time to dwell upon the physical and mental plagues that were drawn with the vagabond’s new position among the Versai. He allowed his thoughts to clear, his mind pure as he prepared himself for the impending battle. He was sure the rumors would fly the ‘foolish’ deed of challenging a Healker brother, though they could gossip all they wanted. He was here to make a point, which regardless of the outcome should the dun tinted stag win or that of the raven tones and darkened heart; he was not to back down. He would stand for what he believed to be right, and that should he loose, he would learn from his mistake. He was not afraid of failure, not afraid to admit defeat should this stag prove to be victorious, he would learn and correct himself and be more prepared for the next. He would not flaunt arrogance and strut around supposing himself superior, he was humble, and through humbleness he would succeed, whether it is today or sometime in the future, he would be victorious.

Strings were fluid, relaxed upon the small baron, as he relaxed allowing himself the chance to prepare, though mentally the excited, the thought of a good battle at hand the steed could not help himself, the testosterone and adrenaline that flooded his system made sure of that. As his silent prayer was sent to the heavens, he liked to think that his sisters’ spirit was with him, there to guide and protect him, there to help with his cause. She was the very reason that the baritone had pursued such a path for himself, a career in helping the weak from the clutches of darkness, and it was what he would spend his days doing, till the very last breath left his carcass. Sunlight poured upon the desert landscape, as the heat escaped across the cracked soil, though the behemoth took little notice, allowing his senses to focus upon his surroundings. He was not fully aware of Spyder until he decided to make his entrance, which brought the deep, crimson gaze upon the much larger steed. His coat was a deepened hue of onyx, like a raven had swung his wings across the beast, allowing only minimal lighters spots to drop upon his carcass, only notable with certain light striking them correctly. Erathel had gone into the battle knowing very well he was considered at a disadvantage, considering the very height difference that settled between the two stallions, though he his concerns of such, he was willing and able, the dun sprinkled vagabond would not be daunted by the challenge that he had presented himself. Lethare, I presume?” His vocals were cold, laced heavily with sarcasm, though the smaller hessian allowed the lyrics to roll off his back, much like water fell from the back of a duck. The dark alliance portrayed itself the same to Erathel, cold and heartless, something he had learned not to take to heart, because it was their generic stereo type.

”Spyder.” His tones were cool and eased, falling from his raven tipped labrums with ease, as he would not give the baritone before him the satisfaction of getting beneath his skin. Battles were always as much a mental game as they were physical, and thus he would not allow himself to be sucked into the mental abuse he was almost sure would come from the dark toned steed. His gaze was smooth, tracking over the neatly across the raven steed; over a foot of height difference would naturally put the presumption that Spyder had the advantage, however as the tri – toned stag took in his opposed, he allowed his clocks to turn. It was an obvious fact that the limbs were an equines weaker point, regardless of size, equine limbs were natural a weak source. Sizing up the chance of his opponent, the steed took only a brief second to collect his weight beneath him; sturdy pillars lunged forward, as the steed tucked his dial towards the left side of his bodice, exposing the right side of his shoulder blade and bosom. Powering himself forward within the few strides he aimed his smaller frame at the femurs of the larger beast, as he came within striking range, his cranial twisted, snaking his muzzle back away from his left shoulder blade. Harks flattened against the base of his cranial piece, as the cords amongst his face peeled back the charcoal labrums to reveal the topaz stained enamels, curling his muzzle back towards the right side of the raven toned steed, he tried to sink his enamels into either the flesh of his thick shoulder blade, or his jugular should he be able to reach it before colliding, if he even hit his target as he hoped. As his daggers touched back into the deep dust crusted soil once more, he lunged himself forward, darting to the right of the stag only by a few strides. The quick electrons within his cerebellum connected back to that of his pistons, locking his joints quickly, bringing his fourteen hand frame to a jagged halt, before swinging his haunches away. Nasal passages flared as a snort shuddered through his larynx, ridding his nasal passages from the dust he had created from his attack, as his harks peeled themselves from the base of his cranial piece, his attention focused upon the cloud that was slowly beginning to disperse, settling back into their original place upon the earth. His gaze was intent, surveying the damage, if any, he could have possibly done. However his cords remained taunt, ready for either the next attack, or to quickly move should the need arise. No more was it for the banter of small talk, the game had officially begun.



STATUS: complete
WORD COUNT: 1,075
MUSE: eh
MUSIC: none
LYRICS: none
TAGGED: azzy & the surgeon
NOTES: I'm just saying he knows him as Wright Spyder lol <3 And no worries love shit happens, if you need longer just say so we can adjust the time frame! I'm in no hurry its nice to get him out and have a battle after so long of not! <3
ATTACKS: 3 left.

first: He charged at the Surgeons front legs, aiming his left shoulder at them while trying to bite either his right shoulder or lower neck (where it connects to his chest).

DODGES: Two left.
DAMAGE: None yet.
RULES:

4 attacks, 2 dodges.
5 day posting limit (if needed to be waved can be).
Winner takes the looser prisoner/slave for a total of one completed threads.

[A z z y]

Name- The Surgeon/ Wight Spyder
Breed- Thoroughbred x Andalusian x Holstein x Shire x Arab
Age- 9 years
Gender- male
Height- 18.2 hands
Alliance- Dark
Health - 100%


The unrelenting heat radiated upon the duo, the land beyond breaking point, its surface cracked and open, wounds forced upon it by mother nature herself. Crimson lampistras rolled over the unpolished golden midget that stood before him, haughty pride and feigned modesty dripped from his aura, sickening the black hellion, making his blood boil until there was little left but iron dust within his steel veins. Calcium stumps ground together in lazy rotations passing the saliva too and fro within his chasm, his focus never wavered from the target, watching him with anticipation so intense and so dedicated he could see every hair on his body in high definition, every muscle that jumped, every lash that protected his voids...they were all permanently noted within his thinker. Standing squarely, The Surgeon watched as he allowed his assumptions to be proven correct, the smaller beast pulling down his battle helmet as if to prevent any further attack apart from the physical blows he was likely to receive. The Surgeon simply observed as Lethare spoke his name, one simple string of letters that seemed to be the flag for the battle to begin. A maniacal leer mutilated his features as he adjusted his weight, watching as the smaller hessian leapt forward from a stand still, his small nimble figure advancing in choppy, slight steps caused him to advance quicker than expected, yet the black rock did not move, he simply waited. The dull drum roll of the younger leviathan's daggers grew closer, the ground reverberating the force of his musculature and knives upon the topography, emphasized by the mere hardness of the geo below them.


The golden lad was upon him quicker than he had first anticipated. The angle that his shoulder stuck out caught the larger leviathan in the muscle that lined his upper fore limbs, the flesh taking the hit, the muscle deadeing slightly as dull pain soared through his leg. The force caused his weight to waiver slightly, his large pillars splaying slightly to regain his balance. The pain faded after a few moments, until he was hit yet again, this time the fangs of the slighter demon grappled at his shoulder, the flesh torn off, searing crimson boiled over the now open wound, flowing freely down his shoulder, loose cords of muscle began curling below. The Surgeon watched as the littlun sped off to avoid injury, his gaze clearly upon the black hell hound. A smirk split his labrets in to a horrific grin, his skull twisting as his tongue slithered out like a snake from a hole and lapped up his own life lines, his pupils dilating as he turned on to face the younger hessian. He would be ready. Expecting his move, anticipating whatever damage he could conjure. It wasn't going to be an easy battle, but he had the advantage. A defiant smirk crossed his labrets as he advanced slowly towards the demon, an arched brow the only expression upon his poker face. Within moments, his long strides had carried him alongside Lethare in half the time. His muscles were coiled, taught springs ready to unleash hell in any given moment.

Once along side him, his mass spun suddenly upon hind daggers, one fore limb aiming to pressing on the base of his neck, the other just below the poll, his entire force pressing down upon the smaller hessian. The Surgeon threw his skull sky bound, his ebony tresses a blur against the sapphire atmosphere before he quickly brought his chin down, aiming for the lack of muscle along the occipital, his harks flattened against his own poll to avoid loss of the most useful sense. Dentals aimed for his cheek, snaking around to hopefully grapple at the pliant flesh of his jugular. Angling his jaws at the right degree, he snapped several times, aiming to draw blood at the very least. Leaping off in one swift movement he spun away,flicking his hind daggers as he left in order to hopefully snap a few ribs as he departed. However, unlike Lethare's quick escape away from The Surgeon, he now moved behind the golden demon instead of away, giving enough clearance space of Lethare's hind limbs but close enough to maintain a close enough attack on both parts.

The Surgeon's brain was in auto pilot, a total over drive of everything he ever held restraint on, his thoughts reeling off every muscle he had affected, every bone he had aimed for. The restrains he held on himself, th way the flesh of others kept him in check was becoming nullified, his cords tightened once again as he leapt once more into action, this time a stride was all he needed. Leaping in to mid air, his hind daggers were flung sky bound, aiming for the visual organs that rolled so enticingly within the bony incarcerations of his puny skull. The Surgeon knew within him, that even he didn't make contact, enough dust had been thrown up to temporarily blind the smug bastard. Skidding to a dignified halt, the demon spun around, halting and facing the lad head on, his facade snaked low to the geo, waiting for the next attck, waiting for the little spit fire to bounce over and try to reach him. Inhaling deeply, he waited, his jaw clenched as his leer crept back upon his features, the once stoic appearence now lit up in a frenzied leer, the search for flesh evident as the need to feed over took him. Yet the gladiator kept it in, knowing full well the smaller lad would most want to have his tantrum and get it out of his system. Eyes were momentarily cast to the ever darkening horizon, the hour grew late and soon he would have the next advantage of being darker than the night itself. How long would Lethare last?


STATUS: complete
WORD COUNT: 984
MUSE: meh
MUSIC: knife party & marilyn manson
TAGGED: shorty
NOTES: Gah, its super crapola. im so sorry you had to wait this long for such rubbish...

ATTACKS: two - aimed to pin down & essentially head butt him then aim to bite his jugular, finished with an attempt at a blow to the ribs. second attack he aimed to blind him.
DODGES: two.
RULES: 4 hits and 2 dodges. 5 day reply limit. Should Erathel Win Spyder becomes his prisoner for the total of one completed thread. Should Spyder win, Erathel becomes slave to spyder for one completed thread
No Word Limit.

[/blockquote]
[/a][/div][/div]

[Deleted]

Did you want to continue or call the auto win?

[A z z y]

ooc; auto win?

[Deleted]

Well because I was gone for the longer day then we decided on techniqually you should have automatically won.

[A z z y]

ooc; oh. its up to you lovely. we could auto win or continue, whichever you prefer.

[Deleted]

I would like to continue it if you don't mind?

[Deleted]

Name - Erathel/Lethare
Breed - Fjord
Age - 6 years
Gender - Male
Height - 14 hands
Alliance - Light
Health - 85%

We're going down, down,
In an earlier round.
And Sugar we're going down swinging.
I'll be your number one for a bullet,
I'm a loaded complex, cock it and pull it.

Cords rippled to life beneath the dusted hide, as the behemoths cerebellum was focused upon the propelled motion; simple, silent command that slithered between the neuron synapses within the massive think box in quick, rapid procession. Effortlessly creating the single motion that drove the fourteen hand heightened beast into action. Lobes plastered themselves against the base of his napestry, parallel to the vertical standing, duo toned locks that poked from the peak of his nape, following the line down to stop where his neck line sloped into the thick, rounded shoulder blades. Excretion of bodily fluids had begun to collect upon the thick coils of muscle hidden upon his hide, plastering his hide into a darkened gold sheen, creating an ivory foam between his limbs, created not only from exertion but the blistering heat of the bearing sun globe held high above their cranial pieces in the aquamarine heavens. The only sound that could be distinguishable within the audibles of the smaller brujan was the pounding of his life source, roaring like a hurricane within his ear drums. Crimson pools were locked upon the gargantuan that stood firmly before him, as time seemed to be slowed, drawing everything into a slow motion. He protruded his left shoulder blade, aiming for the fragile femur bones upon the fore limbs of the raven hued bastard. 3… 2… 1… As if the climax had suddenly broke, everything was a blur, as his rounded blade connected with its intended target, a dull thud rocked the very being of the smaller stag, as the collision seemed to rock his entire frame. Joints screamed as they were suddenly forced in the opposite direction from which his frame had suddenly told them, though his brain did not comprehend these pleas for mercy, as the boiled rage that came from the pure thrill of fight, the testosterone flooded viens denied any other feeling but adrenaline and thrill, regardless of his affiliation, all his basic instinct seemed to fuel him, propelling him into this battle. The only logical thought was that of the next procedure, the next movement, calculated with precision of keeping himself in the battle. Salty brine suddenly filled his gaped jowls, the hot liquid flooded his parted chasms as satisfaction swept through him with the sudden gut jerking motion of the wretched taste of blood upon his tongue. His bite had connected, tearing the onyx blasted flesh from the baritones skeletal features. As his sturdy pillars rocketed him away from the collision, he was surprised to come out without even being touched, Spyder had not bothered to block, nor had he bothered to fight back.

He put enough space between them to reconcile his thoughts, allow for composure, without ever mistaking any possible advance from the mastodon before him. He had come from a place of equals, size wise that was anyways, so this was a whole new ball game. Fighting was a basic instinct, something that they were all programmed to be able to do without a second thought about what was happening, though it took time, practice and knowledge to be able to hone the skills into something that could be considered something of a formidable opponent. Spyder was one of those, the tell tale sign was the jagged outlines that ripped across his darkened frame, zig zagging like a road map of his history. However what those scars did not tell Erathel, was the equine that placed those upon his frame. There was no way for him to know exactly what he had faced before this day, and thus his experience was a mystery, just as Erathel’s was to him. Though he would not bother to give the satisfaction of knowing that he was not accustomed to such a battle, regardless of any obvious hints that could have been dropped from his actions themselves. Concentration had not bothered to break upon this momentary lapse from actual action, as the steed allowed himself to focus upon the gruntal movements of the primitive mammoth like steed. There was a certain air of arrogance crossing his features that spawned a fire rooted from the very basic sense; stemming from the base of the spinal cord, so vaguely hidden beneath the skull piece. His movements were slow, deliberate, the single, invisible brow quirked upon his otherwise emotionless skull. Should the circumstances have been different, Erathel would probably have found him repugnant, wanting nothing more than to laugh upon his facial expressions. He screamed stereo-type, his even so coordinated, taunt like movements, it was as if Erathel was reading a damn novel on the dark alliance. His frame did not flinch, did not hesitate in the slightest as his opponent passage drew him forwards. His own limbs rotated the joint sockets beneath his drenched hide, following the brutes movements with keen intensity, keeping from allowing the baritone to come across his broadside.

Coal frame rippled to life in a sudden burst of energy, as the behemoth was suddenly that much taller than him, towering massively above the already smaller beast. The crimson voids did not bother to follow the mutilated features of the steed as he towered, though his thought process quickly shifted. He was suddenly staring at the undercarriage of the bastard, the very soft sensitive flesh that should never have been bothered to be shown. Reacting with only a moments hesitation, the virile lunged, peeling back his charcoal tinted labrums to reveal the hidden rows of ivory enamels once more. Jowls grasped in almost desperation, aiming their pincers at any piece of flesh that could possibly be caught, preferably reaching closer to the more sensitive area of the behemoth, should he get that lucky. It was not exactly the orthodox action of such, but the amber coated steed was not about to pass upon the chance to given to him. However before he could be fully aware of any possible damage that he could proceed to inflict, there was a racking pain that lit through his frame. The origin was not quite visible to begin with to the steed, as his anatomy was suddenly consumed, a lightning bolt of energy connecting through his frame. He staggered backwards, realizing that the daggers of his opponent had connected into the sensitive flesh of his spinal column, coming down hard enough as the gargantuan weight pressed down to create a blinding like pain to rake through his nervous system, suddenly seeming to fry them from functioning properly. Mandible clenched against itself, as the growl that tore savagely through his larynx proceeded through clenched ivories in the most gruntal actions, fighting back the urge to scream in rage and pain all in one massive bellow. However he was given no time to think about this as the behemoth suddenly staggered away from him, throwing himself in the opposite direction. The coil that seemed to ripple through the jackass’s hind quarters instinctively caused the stallion to leap sideways, as his instinct proved to be correct, as he narrowly missed being kicked in the facial structure, swinging himself around quickly in a complete three hundred and sixty degree circle. However the sand that was kicked upwards did hit its target, though not enough to completely blind the bastard, there was enough to cause a sudden irritation, as the stag shook his dome piece vigorously.

Indignation suddenly snapped through the bastards cranial piece, as he rocketed himself forward, catching only a glimpse of the stags outline through the dust. Chops parted as beller of pure, unorthodox rage peeled itself from deep within the hidden voice box, concealed beneath the thick set clavicle bone. Steel plates plastered themselves into the terrain, kicking the dust back into the atmosphere once more, as his frame launched from the ground. Frontal pistons extended in union with the thick mass of his napestry, as ivory enamels extended aiming for the pliable flesh of the bastards flank, aiming broadside of the large bastard. His ivories aimed for the soft delicacy that was the flesh that connected barrel to haunches, while his daggers aimed to come down upon the behemoths hind limb, regardless of their placement, he paid more attention to the steeds flank, to grasp and possibly tear any piece of flesh away from the onyx hued steeds flesh, while possibly doing any achievable damage to his hind limb in the process. However through the massive cloud of dust, there was no assurance of what his attack had brought, as his daggers connected back to the hard turf, he felt his cannon bones stumble slightly, as he fought to catch himself with light timing, before putting a simple two strides between himself and Spyder. Lids plastered themselves only the briefest of second upon his cheek bones, as he blinked furiously at the watery blister that had formed upon his right optical, though he did not allow his attention to falter away from the mass that was known as Spyder, he could not afford to allow any lapse of concentration to fall. There was more than just being a prisoner upon the line, he needed so much to prove that he was someone to be taken seriously, and thus, he could not afford to lose. As cherry shaded opticals locked upon the outline of the steed again, he waited, ready.

STATUS: complete
WORD COUNT: 1550
MUSE: was good then died
MUSIC: random pandora
LYRICS: ... i forgot e.e
TAGGED: azzy & spyder
NOTES: sorry it died =/
ATTACKS: 1 left

oo1. He charged at the Surgeons front legs, aiming his left shoulder at them while trying to bite either his right shoulder or lower neck (where it connects to his chest).
oo2. When Spyder reared, Erathel lunged under him and tried to bite any part of his underside, aiming for his genital region.
oo3. He charged at Spyder aiming to bite his flank and kick his back limb.

DODGES: 1 left

oo1. He dodged the headbutt and rib kick by lunging at Spyders belly.

DAMAGE: 85% health

oo1. Spyders feet collided into his spinal column, causing two vertebra to become separated momentarily causing him severe pain when moving in particular directions This will cause Degenerative Disk Disease later on in his life.
oo2. Spyder kicked dust into his eye causing it to be mildly irritated and watery, making it hard to see out of this eye.

[aliyaah]

A z z y - are you guys planning on finishing this?

[A z z y]

Its up to shorty, The Surgeon is no longer in the Helkaers.

[Deleted]

Eh just call it a draw. Idk what I'm gonna do with Erathel atm.