as we collide

*Isardis* · (This post was last modified: 09-01-2013, 08:05 PM by Isardis.)

They would tower their golden stockades about their King, each massive form as great as the next as his warriors would file; fangs sharpened beneath deceiving folds, twitching with the faithful eagerness of triumph, veins so readily pulsing with the vital infection their King had birthed. Pride would ever thrive beneath his skull, within his lungs, the awareness of his kingdoms greatest warriors only encouraging him more ravenously onwards; unwilling to shame them, unprepared to watch them cower their heads in realisation of a pitiable loss. He would illustrate to them, and the lackluster Valhallans that flawed their presence, that to serve him was a one-way ticket to greatness, superiority, victory. He would not fail them, as he so reasonably expected them to never fail him.

He was a sultan, a monarch, an overlord, a King. His title had been earned, and yet he would never hesitate to exercise its worth. He owed it to no other than himself. Failure was not an option, as if it had ever been. Oh how the drums of war would pound so insolently in the distance, rumbling like the enraged jaws of thunder, denied so desperately by the Valhallans, only to be treasured, encouraged, craved by the Northern Empire. Numbers would be no match for cannon balls.

Alas the angel would be unpleasantly surprised; for whatever idiotic reasons the russet-faced wench thought it wise to plunge head-first into the depths of prospect despair, thoughtlessly toss her body towards his assail as if she fancied having pretty eyes chiselled from her skull. Perhaps the little avian wasn?t as foolishly innocent as she appeared, or perhaps she was solely stupid. Only time would tell, though for frustrating reasons the damsel had managed to save her vision, to slither free of his optimistic jaws as ivories would barely scrape her brow; sending his orifice clashing together with enough force to send an eerie crack! reverberating the rotting air that sprawled them. Immediately a haunting snarl would scratch at his throat, aggressive gurgles of irritation struggling free of ever-hungry jaws. But he wouldn?t be deterred.

No, the wench had simply been fortunate; but he knew now, he knew she didn?t shy away from contact, and so he would ruthlessly take advantage of her techniques; contorting his body as she would her own, remaining ever-light on cherry toes as the demon would ready to flash from her grasp, unprepared to let such a feeble tarnish pallid flesh. Hind end would coil beneath him, exercised muscle bunching with a masculine maturity the babe before him so lacked, forelimbs remaining feathered as he would recover from previous endeavours. How would his little magpie retaliate, hm? Rocking rage would press beneath his leather, simmering within his veins, though still polluted by the instability of sickening pleasure; no efforts taken to feel threatened by the woman until she were upon him.

Was Liberty worth this? No. But his pride was.

The woman would curl, spine pushing her towards The pallid King as her jaws would snap at his side; the initial movements of her shift enough to send the man whirling away from her touch, spinning his light forequarters away from the avian fiend in an attempt to save his skin. Though she had been well calculated, hitting closely enough to her mark to send an agitated yelp slicing the air that encompassed them. Rage would rattle within his core, stretching at his ribs as his chest would heave, struggling to fight the demons that would begin to climb, to soar his gullet. Caught in the moment the fiend would retaliate, a vicious snarl scathing his pipes in fluctuating waves of fury, forelimbs bouncing back towards his previous position in no less than blinking velocity.

Hell, let her preoccupy herself with her shielded prize, rump guarded by profound muscle and superior width the woman would be unable to wrap her jaws around anything vital; no, she had been foolish to think otherwise. Her solid thump hadn?t even been enough to waver superior weight, likely due to his sudden change of angle earlier. Far too stained by contact the gladiator was unable to take any mental notes of the damage inflicted, wasting no time to relocate her vitals and carefully calculate a semi-rage-blinded attack; using the fatale?s angle to weave his spinal cord, to twist pulsating sinew that thrummed so potently with the deadly arrival of adrenaline, right hindlimb in sight as the brujo would feverishly seek the thrum of the womans femoral artery. Pink jaws would crank, head twisting at a barely fathomable angle, positioning his lower jaws towards the inside of her frontal thigh.

Extended tail would flash towards the womans face, a brittle attempt at throwing her attentions, striving desires to distract her from countering his vital assault. His weight would steady, paws heavy beneath him as he adjusted to the duos new proximities, toes somewhat splayed as his spine would attempt to realign, towers flat against the delicate slopes of his skull, eyes narrowed to the point of fine targeting as bristles would raise along his nape. Lower canines exposed, flashing with ivory splendour as his weapons would strive to hook her femoral artery, to cleave effortlessly through flesh and muscle until he was aware he had torn the vein from her limb, until she would collapse before him as the life drained from her body. This wasn?t a pastime, it wasn?t about yelps and screams, but about eliminating the subject that so insisted on preventing The King his desires, his needs.

He would give himself time, hover within his proximities as his jaws would attempt to saw, to seek ideal contact and sever both flesh and vitals. Tail restraightening behind him as his clockwork would continue to tick, to buzz incessantly as he pondered his next attack. As if destroying her blood supply weren?t enough, The King would retract from a hopefully successful assail, dropping his elbows as narrowed rubies would hungrily seek the target that so tempted him. That tantalized him with it?s prospects, and so with the roll of his shoulders and the twisting of his gullet the albino would send an ambitious thrusting of glimmering weapons towards the tenders of her exposed abdomen; one of the very few places unguarded by strengthened muscles. He would aim just behind the ribs, where intestines would boil beneath thin skin, and it would be there that he would attempt to envelope as much flesh as his orifice could manage, to wreath the tissue right out from beneath her.

Isardis vs. chrysanthe ? round 2 of 3

defences: originally isardis is light on his fores to be ready to spin his front away from chrys upon attack, but he then returns to hsi previous angle when he fails to dodge, and steadies/evens his weight. Teeth bared, toes splayed for balance, weight equal, tail flicking towards chrysanthe as a distraction before re-steadying, spine aligning, eyes narrowed, ears pinned, hackles raised, shoulders rolled (last attack) and elbows dropped (last attack).

attacks: Isardis takes advantage of Chrys' angle by his right side, carefully calculating an attack with his lower canines to the femoral artery on the inner frontal thigh (right), aiming to cause excessive blood loss. He then retracts after sawing his jaw, re-aiming to grasp the tender abdomen flesh behind her ribs and wretch his weight downwards whilst holding.

injuries: punctures/scratches above the right flank, over the muscle

--- You do not even know how insanely bad this timing was, I never have trouble with being on time for fights, but oh my lord- from black outs, to assignments, to falling off my horse... so sorry Seren, but I really appreciate how understanding you have been. It means a lot to me to have the second chance!

reference for where the femoral artery is located - Click!
Edited to add above.

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