the Rift

Insufficient (Rhiannon)

Roland Posts: 230
Aurora Basin Phantom atk: 7.5 | def: 10 | dam: 2.5
Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: 8 yrs HP: 60.0 | Buff: NOVICE
honest is easy
fiction’s where genius lies

Roland tried not to think of it as a death sentence. The truth was, there wasn't anything particularly enjoyable about the idea of fighting another from his herd each season, even if it was just one, simple spar. How much harm could be done in a brief- and purely educational- exchange of blows? He had done well enough in the first round, walking away with only a moderate amount of bruising on his chest, and a certain sort of confidence had followed him around for days afterwards. It had dissipated eventually, as those things did, an elixir of courage that was only obtained through victory, a fortunate yet fleeting adrenaline rush that had faded and was once again replaced by reluctance. The Thief had resolved to change that. He had long endeavored to be rid of his fears, his uncertainties, wishing to regain the courage to stick his neck out, risk his hide against shot and shell. He knew that he did not like feeling useless. The only way to change that was to make himself useful.

Roland missed the ease of battle that had come to him in years passed, the nonchalance with which he had placed himself into the midst of war, and yet now he shied away from the mere mention of it. This was just practice, he reminded himself. The mare he had been assigned to fight would not have his head for his troubles... He hoped not, at the very least. The Thief had seen very little of Rhiannon. He wasn't even entirely sure what to look for. Roland approached the prospect with a certain amount of apprehension, wondering what she might be like. And as always he hoped he wouldn't make too much of a fool of himself; he would have to live and serve alongside her, after all.

It had been a dark, windy day; one that seemed to lean more towards autumn than summer. There was an almost silvery tint to the sky, the first bleeding-red rays of light slanting across the mountains, a slap of crimson-gold paint across the underside of every gray cloud. It reminded the Thief of the approaching winter, something he was always less than eager to endure. Already he missed the warmth of the sun, for now it was just a mere breath, a whisper of heat along his skin as he stood amongst the short grasses of the valley, a strong wind blowing at his back. His gaze lingered upon every shadow amongst the trees, inked out by the westering sun; it skipped over the snow capped peaks and skimmed across the clear glass surface of the lake, slow, meticulous in his admiration. He was stalling. A few birds tracked across the sky, the cut of their wings through air a whispering beat that punctuated the silence until they disappeared into the thick branches of an evergreen. Roland listened to their distant song as it floated across the empty space between them, heralding the approaching twilight. It was as if the valley was holding its breath, caught between day and night, hovering upon a precipice. A sigh escaped the Thief's lips, quiet, soft, a mere ghost of a breath. He reanimated eventually, no longer a golden statue frozen upon the grasses, and moved out towards where the dirt and foliage faded away into gray slate, hard and dry. His hooves struck against the surface as he came to a halt, the lake sprawled out like a vat of tar before him. The quiet of the Basin gave him peace, the white noise of the wind now such a constant, abiding melody that he hardly paid it notice any longer. It was calming. The Thief's tail gradually ceased its agitated sway as he relaxed; he breathed in methodically, cool air against his throat.

"Rhiannon," he called out finally, almost hoping he would not be heard, that he could pretend she was nowhere to be found. Yet at the same time, he knew the winds would carry his voice the distance necessary. He tucked his chin in, kept an eye out for her silhouette against the horizon, unsure of quite what he was looking for, but figured he would know once he saw her. The Thief could fight with words easily enough, but they would be of no use against brute force. He resigned himself to his fate, whatever the outcome might be.



[WC: 735/800
Tallsun Seasonal Spar.
Setting: On rocky ground by the lake. The sun is beginning to set and the air is cool. There is a strong northern wind.

Rhiannon can have the first attack!]

image credits

Sevin the Sucky, I mean are you a # or vacuum? Posts: 161
OOC Account
Mare :: Other :: 5'5" :: 25
Closed for non-response, no VP

Forum Jump:

RPGfix Equi-venture