Honing The Weapons

*Obsidian* · 09-28-2013, 08:07 PM

Obsidian

War was coming down on the pack she lived in, and she felt useless. Apart from Cormalin, she had sparred with no one else. She knew his moves inside in out. And she had watched spars from far off. But she needed to get in the experience of a spar with someone unfamiliar. Hooves drummed on the hard earth of the Field. She?d never come off the edge of the place, and she hardly ever left the pack land. Curved, delicate ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring at the scent of old blood, and her tail switched, flicking over sleek black sides that hadn?t quite started growing winter hair yet.

Wolves had fought here, some had died, surely. If she could help it, none of the future deaths would be part of her pack. Baroque head, chiseled planes catching the weak late autumn sunlight, raised high, deep blue pools searching the plains, before she rose into a slight rear, issuing a challenge to the Battlefield. It came as a shrieking scream, piercing the air, hoarse and defiant. Hehe, hoarse. Horse. She chuckled to herself in her mind at the pun. A hoarse horse. Then she snapped her mind back to the present moment as her hooves slammed into the ground, raising a light puff of dust.

Statue still, she waited, wondering who would answer.

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