10-11-2018, 10:07 AM
Summer is slowly passing, and with each day that the lavender man doesn’t show, the ice-drake stallion is convinced he won’t come this summer, but in fall. And he fears he’ll never have Breckin as ready as she should be, by then. No battle reflexes. No battle instincts; and so, like he promised her he would (even if she hates it), he’s watching. Always, or, at least whenever they’re not both asleep, but he’s lucky she lets him nearer then.
His focus is on the white, dotted woman, from the distance which he estimates at which she cannot clearly make him out, but she is still within his own view. Her neck is scarred and the tissue is always sensitive, he knows. He knows from testing, from going near there ever so softly and feeling her tense, so the best he can do is leave it alone.
She’s talking to his mother, who can probably see him as well as he them. That’s the only downside of this, she’ll know it and probably make a remark on it or come talk to him later. Family traits can be so inconvenient sometimes.
But his position away from the two mares atop the figurative food chain, places him in a place where he’s also aware of Sabra. Not right away, though. His focus is elsewhere. For her, that’s severe bad luck; for him, something he’ll hardly forgive himself. With time, perhaps. So when he tosses his head and overlooks the kingdom, spotting the irregular movements, he’s too late to intervene with the wing-breaking.
Or with what follows.
But he suddenly bolts from his spot anyway. There’s only one, minimal, upside to a man attacking, maiming, and raping: he’s preoccupied. Gives him time to close in. Take a longer route, sneak up on the scene.
Too late for Sabra; even if she spotted him coming up behind the lavender pegasus, he can’t help the stake aiming for her heart. But it’s an ideal position - for Leilan, that is. Exposed, neck forward, stance wide, there is a whole lot of Klaudius to sink his teeth in, ripe for the taking.
He goes for the wing first. There’s unruly feathers to his taste, but also lightweighted bones, and they snap so easily in his dragontoothed mouth. Almost as if they’re made for this. He pulls and twists, tearing off the limb. Almost too easy.
At this point surely he’ll have been noticed. But he’s enraged and totally doesn’t care if he recieves a return-blow. A wing, for Sabra’s. A second bite is aimed for the crest, and again, surely, whatever Klaudius can do against it, it’s too late. Enraged, eyes black as the night, he has nothing else to think of but kill this man and take what he took and make him suffer. Sabra was his friend, damn it. But Breckin has lived in fear so long, too - nothing he can do is enough. But anything he can tear off is minor satisfaction, every squeak or roar of pain or scream, it’s helping. Vent the anger. Kill the threat. Avenge the rape and murder.
There are no words, there are hardly thoughts. He’s fuming, and perhaps there’s a more primal, roaring sound; with the lavender crest still in a firm grip, his adrenalin-fueled, muscles body aims to throw the more skinny man on the ground, feeling the flesh rip with an odd sense or justice even more so than satisfaction.
Klaudius is given no time to think but even if he came to his senses and made armor now, he’d be too late.
He aims for the face. The cold of his dragon-iced breath is near-unnatural, like liquid nitrogen; sufficient to fully freeze the mask, or helmet, that had been created; the cold is probably already eating it’s way into the man’s supposedly-handsome face. If there’s one thing he knows about Klaudius it’s that he loves his pretty face. So let’s maim it. Freeze-burn it. Let it blister in the cold. A solid kick shatters the helmet; breathing heavily, the scaled roan assesses the damage. Still breathing, though probably not long any more.
It’s still not enough.
This sad excuse for a man deserves to die. For even if he’s not supposedly a sworn brother any more, he’ll never forget his oaths. Rape and murder will never be tolerated.
@[Castile] your turn! Put him wingless and on the ground for you, I think that’s sufficient! If anything needs changing let me know. @[Neo]
His focus is on the white, dotted woman, from the distance which he estimates at which she cannot clearly make him out, but she is still within his own view. Her neck is scarred and the tissue is always sensitive, he knows. He knows from testing, from going near there ever so softly and feeling her tense, so the best he can do is leave it alone.
She’s talking to his mother, who can probably see him as well as he them. That’s the only downside of this, she’ll know it and probably make a remark on it or come talk to him later. Family traits can be so inconvenient sometimes.
But his position away from the two mares atop the figurative food chain, places him in a place where he’s also aware of Sabra. Not right away, though. His focus is elsewhere. For her, that’s severe bad luck; for him, something he’ll hardly forgive himself. With time, perhaps. So when he tosses his head and overlooks the kingdom, spotting the irregular movements, he’s too late to intervene with the wing-breaking.
Or with what follows.
But he suddenly bolts from his spot anyway. There’s only one, minimal, upside to a man attacking, maiming, and raping: he’s preoccupied. Gives him time to close in. Take a longer route, sneak up on the scene.
Too late for Sabra; even if she spotted him coming up behind the lavender pegasus, he can’t help the stake aiming for her heart. But it’s an ideal position - for Leilan, that is. Exposed, neck forward, stance wide, there is a whole lot of Klaudius to sink his teeth in, ripe for the taking.
He goes for the wing first. There’s unruly feathers to his taste, but also lightweighted bones, and they snap so easily in his dragontoothed mouth. Almost as if they’re made for this. He pulls and twists, tearing off the limb. Almost too easy.
At this point surely he’ll have been noticed. But he’s enraged and totally doesn’t care if he recieves a return-blow. A wing, for Sabra’s. A second bite is aimed for the crest, and again, surely, whatever Klaudius can do against it, it’s too late. Enraged, eyes black as the night, he has nothing else to think of but kill this man and take what he took and make him suffer. Sabra was his friend, damn it. But Breckin has lived in fear so long, too - nothing he can do is enough. But anything he can tear off is minor satisfaction, every squeak or roar of pain or scream, it’s helping. Vent the anger. Kill the threat. Avenge the rape and murder.
There are no words, there are hardly thoughts. He’s fuming, and perhaps there’s a more primal, roaring sound; with the lavender crest still in a firm grip, his adrenalin-fueled, muscles body aims to throw the more skinny man on the ground, feeling the flesh rip with an odd sense or justice even more so than satisfaction.
Klaudius is given no time to think but even if he came to his senses and made armor now, he’d be too late.
He aims for the face. The cold of his dragon-iced breath is near-unnatural, like liquid nitrogen; sufficient to fully freeze the mask, or helmet, that had been created; the cold is probably already eating it’s way into the man’s supposedly-handsome face. If there’s one thing he knows about Klaudius it’s that he loves his pretty face. So let’s maim it. Freeze-burn it. Let it blister in the cold. A solid kick shatters the helmet; breathing heavily, the scaled roan assesses the damage. Still breathing, though probably not long any more.
It’s still not enough.
This sad excuse for a man deserves to die. For even if he’s not supposedly a sworn brother any more, he’ll never forget his oaths. Rape and murder will never be tolerated.
@[Castile] your turn! Put him wingless and on the ground for you, I think that’s sufficient! If anything needs changing let me know. @[Neo]
Two things I know I can make: pretty kids, and people mad.
| 