11-18-2017, 11:40 AM
<center><div style="width: 550px; background: url('http://i.imgur.com/hYDldZI.pngg'); padding-top: 10px; background-position: top; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: #d1cdca; border-radius: 160px 160px 20px 20px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000000; border-top: solid 5px #928c84;"><div style="width: 510px; margin-top: 420px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; padding: 10px; background: #fff; opacity: 0.43; font-family: Times; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #141111; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 120%; text-align: justify; border-radius: 10px 10px; border-top: solid 5px #5f5c57;border-bottom: solid 5px #5f5c57;">When he tastes the blood, it doesn’t plunge Castile into a frenzy; it doesn’t poison his mind and make him sinfully lust more.
Actually, it frightens him.
Being young and inexperienced, Castile isn’t entirely sure what to make of the situation. The beat of his heart is a lead weight banging against his ribcage. He has never brought harm to anyone, but he has now. When he blinks, he has slit pupils, but he blinks again and they are normal.
The blood is pooling across his tongue, but he is forced to release his grip when Krigare latches onto his ear. It’s so close to his face that Castile’s instincts tell him to jerk away, to get away from the danger. The delicate tissue of his ear rips, splitting as he pulls opposite of his opponent. A torrent of fire washes through him, bringing a thin layer of sweat to his skin as the pain intensifies. The frigid wind bites the ripped flesh, and he wants so bad to nurture it and hide it, but he can’t as the battle rages on. The split is at least two inches, enough to cause a great deal of discomfort.
Mother wouldn’t let that affect her, right? So, he can’t.
Castile tries to wheel backwards, his lips coated in Krigare’s blood while his own dribbles down his face, but just as he begins to move his legs his opponent slams into his left side. The injury on his right shoulder still trembles from the earlier concussion and so it struggles to keep balance as he is forced to the right, stumbling awkwardly and slipping on the ice. Had it been warm with no snow or frost blanketing the ground, Castile would have had enough traction to at least remain standing, or if his talons didn’t already shift back into hooves. The combination of factors lands him on the ground unexpectedly, his injured shoulder against the solid ground. His mouth opens, but the cold silence chokes him. Fortunately, Krigare has reeled back in conclusion which enables Castile to rise back to his feet. Naturally, he is sore, but there is still a remnant of adrenaline that dulls the pain for now.
He can’t let Krigare win.
A sharp inhalation feeds his lungs, the exhale coiling in white plumes from his dilated nostrils. Castile faces Krigare, their eyes leveled on one another curiously, suspenseful. A careful note is taken of his opponent’s physical state – bloody, trembling – and while the ignorant and inexperienced part of him wants to find a healer, Castile is forced to remind himself that the battle’s conclusion rests in his palms.
A steady walk – albeit with a mild limp – moves the boy in a broad circle in an almost predatory way. He bides his time unnaturally, letting the winter cold bite into his opponent’s wounds and unmoving body. Keep moving when it’s cold, he muses, don’t let your muscles stiffen.
When he closes, it’s with reduced speed but a blazing fire in his soul. Castile rears and lashes his forelimbs toward Krigare’s left hip. Whether the hit met its target or deviated a few inches to the flanks or the muscles of the hindquarters, Castile hopes to reduce the powerhouse of the horse’s body and weaken him. The repercussion, however, forces an abrupt sucking of air as the concussion reverberates through his injured right shoulder. Landing, also, is uncomfortable but necessary. The ground doesn’t give much beneath his weight, the snow splaying but the frozen clay beneath holding fast. This needs to end, he tells himself.
In haste, Castile pivots and kicks his hind legs back. He doesn’t lift his rump high like he would in play; his shoulder threatens him with shudders. It would be a kick more or less aiming for the left elbow, underbelly, or lower aspect of the shoulder. Enough to inflict damage to a degree, but hopefully quickly enough as to remove some of the pressure off his forehand, although it carries a majority of his weight. A majority, at least, isn’t his entire weight like when he bucks.
The instant his hooves make contact with the icy ground again, Castile leaps away then gingerly turns. An exasperated sigh escapes him and his head droops in exhaustion while the adrenaline begins to wane. Steam rises from his body, battling the bitter cold above him in a hazy cloud. With a low grunt, Castile edges toward Krigare, cringing slightly with his limp and upon seeing the damage he caused. When their eyes level onto each other, Castile immediately sets aside the battle that just concluded and solemnly says, <i>”Let’s find a healer for you.”</i> The monster caged within him growls with satisfaction as it settles down, for now, never wanting to be truly tamed.
</div></center></center>
Actually, it frightens him.
Being young and inexperienced, Castile isn’t entirely sure what to make of the situation. The beat of his heart is a lead weight banging against his ribcage. He has never brought harm to anyone, but he has now. When he blinks, he has slit pupils, but he blinks again and they are normal.
The blood is pooling across his tongue, but he is forced to release his grip when Krigare latches onto his ear. It’s so close to his face that Castile’s instincts tell him to jerk away, to get away from the danger. The delicate tissue of his ear rips, splitting as he pulls opposite of his opponent. A torrent of fire washes through him, bringing a thin layer of sweat to his skin as the pain intensifies. The frigid wind bites the ripped flesh, and he wants so bad to nurture it and hide it, but he can’t as the battle rages on. The split is at least two inches, enough to cause a great deal of discomfort.
Mother wouldn’t let that affect her, right? So, he can’t.
Castile tries to wheel backwards, his lips coated in Krigare’s blood while his own dribbles down his face, but just as he begins to move his legs his opponent slams into his left side. The injury on his right shoulder still trembles from the earlier concussion and so it struggles to keep balance as he is forced to the right, stumbling awkwardly and slipping on the ice. Had it been warm with no snow or frost blanketing the ground, Castile would have had enough traction to at least remain standing, or if his talons didn’t already shift back into hooves. The combination of factors lands him on the ground unexpectedly, his injured shoulder against the solid ground. His mouth opens, but the cold silence chokes him. Fortunately, Krigare has reeled back in conclusion which enables Castile to rise back to his feet. Naturally, he is sore, but there is still a remnant of adrenaline that dulls the pain for now.
He can’t let Krigare win.
A sharp inhalation feeds his lungs, the exhale coiling in white plumes from his dilated nostrils. Castile faces Krigare, their eyes leveled on one another curiously, suspenseful. A careful note is taken of his opponent’s physical state – bloody, trembling – and while the ignorant and inexperienced part of him wants to find a healer, Castile is forced to remind himself that the battle’s conclusion rests in his palms.
A steady walk – albeit with a mild limp – moves the boy in a broad circle in an almost predatory way. He bides his time unnaturally, letting the winter cold bite into his opponent’s wounds and unmoving body. Keep moving when it’s cold, he muses, don’t let your muscles stiffen.
When he closes, it’s with reduced speed but a blazing fire in his soul. Castile rears and lashes his forelimbs toward Krigare’s left hip. Whether the hit met its target or deviated a few inches to the flanks or the muscles of the hindquarters, Castile hopes to reduce the powerhouse of the horse’s body and weaken him. The repercussion, however, forces an abrupt sucking of air as the concussion reverberates through his injured right shoulder. Landing, also, is uncomfortable but necessary. The ground doesn’t give much beneath his weight, the snow splaying but the frozen clay beneath holding fast. This needs to end, he tells himself.
In haste, Castile pivots and kicks his hind legs back. He doesn’t lift his rump high like he would in play; his shoulder threatens him with shudders. It would be a kick more or less aiming for the left elbow, underbelly, or lower aspect of the shoulder. Enough to inflict damage to a degree, but hopefully quickly enough as to remove some of the pressure off his forehand, although it carries a majority of his weight. A majority, at least, isn’t his entire weight like when he bucks.
The instant his hooves make contact with the icy ground again, Castile leaps away then gingerly turns. An exasperated sigh escapes him and his head droops in exhaustion while the adrenaline begins to wane. Steam rises from his body, battling the bitter cold above him in a hazy cloud. With a low grunt, Castile edges toward Krigare, cringing slightly with his limp and upon seeing the damage he caused. When their eyes level onto each other, Castile immediately sets aside the battle that just concluded and solemnly says, <i>”Let’s find a healer for you.”</i> The monster caged within him growls with satisfaction as it settles down, for now, never wanting to be truly tamed.
</div></center></center>