Lórien vs. Arya

[Lórien]

rules;
. no power play .
. no god mode .
. 3 attacks each .
. 1 defence .
. 3 days in between posts .
. winner recieves the position of alpha .

The trees, so serene so peaceful and calm. Swaying in the gentle rhythm as wind filtered through. They seemed to dance, and sing to an unheard beat. Lórien too heard it’s melodious tune, often setting aside portions of time solely to enjoy the unique, inimitable sound of each tree, and their voices, singing in tune. Each note arranged to perform a faultless song in which they resonate daily just for her and she loved them. You would love them too if you understood what she finds so very endearing about their relentless crooning. She finds sweet solace in them. So this atypical willowy nymph-like-thing stood beneath the shade. Stardust speckled around her in that simply flawless manner. Her sinewy limbs fanned out from her fair belly. Those blackish hooves buried in the feathery jade shrubbery. A small but that new incandescent grin splayed across her dazzling, rosy cheeks.

She rises from her nest of moon-shine and mud-path; her steel-gray eyes flickering quietly; her lips lie open yet not voice escapes and when it does come her eyes are calm and quiet. To simply withdraw to her silent corner; only it is not as silent, for she asks (and mind how his tone never wavers out of the cool, casual tone he has adopted), “Bellagio.” Her gray nose drifted to the water’s edge; the frothy water lapping across the glossy stones, encasing her small pale hooves as she listens to it’s insistent bubbling. Breathing in its crisp, wintry scent with amusement. Trudging through the merciless, callous ambiance, a beautiful afterglow of a smile, still alight on her lips; stardust entwined with in windswept hair, and that splendorous plea in her eye.

Her hooves swiftly tip-toe against the red-gold dust that shimmers beneath her feet; the product of crushed pearls. A blockade of beach weed sits before her; the ravenous tide slowly gnawing away at the powdered shells that anchors them in place. There is a ruffle as the garnish parts for her passage for it is Lórien who walks through them, though her step is no more than a butterfly’s kiss through shade and sorrow. Long irregular strands of foreign reed bristle against willowy, white legs as the scenic dryad eludes all society. Society seems to equivocate her be that as it may. And through the desiccated pasture she wanders inaudibly; devoid of the slightest desire to covet any conclusive truth. Her request lies unanswered, she continues on her languid search through a world of passionate delusion. Bittersweet deceit, the delicious fabrication of a world, created through the absolute mendacity of the parched region. Through pale gray eyes, twisted and deluded, surroundings so painfully authentic and captivating no quiet mind could possibly relieve himself of his own foolishness and insanity.

She is here for one purpose, a duty she is willfully completing. As she stands before her opponent she laughs a little laugh. Not purposefully to get up under Arya’s skin. She softly tip-toes across the wet-land; forming an oval like shape as she circles a safe distance from the fat little mare. Gradually she begins to weave, in and out, slowly getting closer; her pace is steady, as if locked in to place at a fluid trot. Round and round and round we go, where it stops, no body knows…

After forming six or so circles about Arya she averts her direction only a fraction of a degree yet is able to skillfully maneuver her lithesome physique toward the tender, flesh of her head. In one lucid motion she swerves and dives toward Arya, only a foot or so from her Lórien shies, her weight angled on her hind legs. In a spring like motion she drives forward her front limbs, hopefully coming in contact with Arya’s skull. Her target is less then narrow for she forms her attack at the right side, her front limbs positioned slightly in front of Arya’s broad chest, angling her attack at the base of the cheek, her attempt no more then a reflex she acquires naturally. If Arya moves back Lórien’s hooves will severely damage both her eye site and hamper the accuracy of her attacks. If Arya dips her head low Lórien’s front portion of her body would be positioned above her neck and when she came down, Arya’s neck would be injured, as if to damage or pinch a nerve causing Arya sever discomfort when changing gaits or turning to view behind her. If Arya’s head does indeed snap skyward Lórien’s hooves would most severely damage her throat and Arya’s ability to breath. If Arya tries to move forward Lórien would end up slamming against her front shoulder with both her front hooves and her own shoulder, most likely knocking her off balance or onto the ground. If she were to take a step away or towards Lórien, it would produce the same, or a very similar outcome. If Arya were to dodge this attack she would have to swing her hind around quick enough, within a fraction of a second to issue a kick to Lórien’s own haunches. Although the skin here is tough and the most protected with thick muscle it may hamper Lórien’s ability to rear, and causing quite the soar spot for a few days.

[Sequin]

Damage caused by Lorien

• A fore plucked the cheek bone leaving a very tender fracture. Another hit would break the jawl.
  
• The kick to the chest was not as hard as the blow to the dial, the attack could cause a stumble. The imapct of the blow is very sore and hurts to move at fast gaits.
  

Effects

• Unable to hold a tight grip with the teeth
  
• No ramming straight on
  
  

[the rest of the attack shall be determined by the next move of Arya due to the fact I cannot decide her counter]

[arya]

Murky shadows fall upon the hearth as the new day starts fresh, a small flicker of light hazing from the distance as it grows with every acking second her daggers hit the rough dirt below her. The sun's dull hew spread slowly across the rough floor, as it slowly etched its way out of the darkness's grasp. Orbs shared the same glow, each pasting moment turning for the worse, as anger and a certain sense of awareness caught in place of the once dismal vix. Vibrations shook past the hearth as small pebbles along side of her, shifted in their positions and ones that were caught in her heavy pursuit found their way stuck in the dirt and silt compact across her frogs, as they held little significance nor dignity across her trek. They were like small markings showing upon where she had moved across mother nature's thin flaky crust, a brief reminding marker, that bore irratively into her daggers until liquid, either aqua or crimson edged away the outer bits until none remained excluding her own flesh. Auds stood erect, no longer pinned and hidden from sight, as if she had been tortured enough to have them permanently removed from her throne. They were perked, as every whispering of the trees and shaking of the branches farther down were captured as a hostage until mind could search through them to ensure they were of no threat. She wouldn't let the monochromatic vixen find her caught unawares, and be able to provide the first surprised move..

As wind stirred around her, oaks seemed to groan around her as they shifted their enormous weight from the mere fact of its burden, the leaves, and a slight breeze. Two things so small can affect things so large. Mind took into short notice as she felt the wind at times take her own favor, as nares made sure to flare open, to be able to identify if any prey, or rival, was in close range. A small wisp caught her attention as she processed it to be her own competitor, the painted vix that she was unaware enough to know her cursing. Pupils contracted as the orange sphere in the distance grew to a brighter yellow, as it became more defined and antagonizing as she drew closer. Daggers set place upon the earth as pillars stayed in rhythmic motions also taking in consideration for the movements through the area around her that weren't of her own. Mind flew through slight thoughts as brief issues crossed her cerebrum's floors as it etched a painful wall inside her mind. Mind prepared herself as she planned every movement she would take, strategies flowing like a large lucid river through her skull.. Thoughts flew back to when she was young, as she forced her mind to review the fight with her sire over and over again.. Picking out particular moves that would trick even the most aware, they tucked into the center of her mind as she could use them for further fighting. Such as the one she had come for now. The position of the lead in the small realm of Friod. One must earn the responsibility of becoming what she was fated to rule over, even if it is over ones that decide to be intrusive and object. Now when I emerge from this battle, not only will I have been asked, but earned the part that I am fitted to role. Her mind echoed eagerly, as pillars moved forward at a more fluid pace.

Muscles rippled through her broad but yet slender form, as the only fat that lay upon her bodice was to protect her from the winter's wrath. It was normal for her breed, a Quarter Horse, to be stocky, but with the broad set, came an impeccable amount of muscle and power, especially in her hind end which was often used to kick off in a split second. A smirk outlined the chestnut's maw as she thought of the slender vixen that she was to battle. They were each the same height, 15.3 hands roughly, but this vix was slender and skinny, as her scores could be less of an outcome than the muscles of a Quarter Horse. Pupils contracted slightly as sun broke completely free from the horizon, as she knew she was quite close to the battle grounds. The once green lush and thick foliage and forage beneath and around her was growing more sparse, and starting to turn a darker shade until they were outlined in a opaque crimson tint, showing references from the last argument and battles that had long and shortly occurred here.. Iris's showed their own amber hew as the sun's warm rays reflected upon them, earth finally seeing the determination and confidence that aroused her every movement and every feature. Pupils held their own onyx flare, as a small flicker caught hold of any passing small creature around her. Soon the spark would meet the gunpowder that layed almost harmlessly around her. Only then when fire met creation, would the explosion arose.. the games would start soon..

Orbs finally found the monochromatic fae in the distance, as pace neither wavered nor increased in intensity. Her once unemotional features now let a smirk fall through as it held onto the edges of her maw. Whipcord hung behind her as only the wind seemed to show it existed, as it danced and twirled around her hocks. But yet her orbs never left the vixen's ahead, as auds still remained perched upon her skull. When daggers finally stood in place upon the ground, as pillars halted with excruciating slowness. Or what seemed to be with slowness.. Only then did a sliver of her tones emerge from her maw, but not in the form of words but of a soft snicker that relished in the depths of her chest cavities as it slowly vibrated through her esophagus and out of the small exit of her maw. Dial rose upright, as nape made no movements to bow. Only the fools would submit to ones that are weaker. The painted vixen's moves started shortly after as several revelations were made around her. Bodice made no movement to kick or lash out.. That would cause imbalance upon herself if she missed, and would give the opposer a perfect time to attack. And it would be unlikely that she would succeed upon hitting her target. Orbs merely followed as bodice made effort to revolute as the vixen did, always keeping her directly in front of her. Slowly the paint came inwards, as she weaved in way inwards, orbs flashing wildly as she tried to find exactly how she would try to hit her. In a split second, the vixen attacked as her reflexes came faster than the mind could think as she shied away from the hit. Backing up a few steps for her did little but make the hit with less force than if she had just stood there. The force of Lorien's daggers hit her harder than she had let herself imagine, as she felt her weight thrown harshly to the side as daggers attempted wildly to grasp the air and soil, but it was to no prevail. Her bodice hit the dirt with a hard blow as she felt the air knock from her lungs. In a desperate attempt she pulled herself up, wincing as she felt pain streak through her right shoulder and down her pillar. Orbs dared to briefly look downwards as she felt a brook of hot blood rush down her pillar, staining her piston along the way. It was a fairly deep laceration, and would affect her forwards movement greater than she had hoped. But she could still stand. Her left side throbbed gently from the fall, but no ribs had broken from the fall, and luckily no bones were showing through her laceration.

Forward movement was provided as she winced every time her pillar hit the ground. Making a resourceful repositioning, she shifted most of her weight to her hind end as she drove from the secure muscle in her rump, taking off most of the weight from her shoulders. Now it was her move. Instant solutions forming into her mind, she picked one of her personal favorites as a smirk caught the edges of her maw once again. Driving from her rump, she suddenly charged towards the painted vix, as she started at a fast lope, growing in increasing levels. Suddenly she charged forwards, seeming to charge at the painted vixen, but she was actually a few degrees off from a straight line. When she landed, she was five feet from the paint's left side, as immediately once her back pistons touched land, they shot off again. Forcing her weight upon her left side, so she wouldn't have to deal with the inconvenience of her newest injury, her pillars shot off again. Now she aimed clearly for the vix's left ribs, as bodice extended fully, daggers pointing infront of her. If the hit made its mark, her daggers would easily puncture her ribs, and have a very likely hood of breaking at least a rib or two from the speed she had pushed from. If Lorien decided upon trying to take the weight upon her rump, or if she shifted her weight to her back end, the Arya's force would land upon her pelvic bone, bruising or severely injuring it, so she wouldn't be able to put weight on it easily or push from her left back pillar. If she were to face Arya or make movement towards her, her aim would be redirected to her scapula, and would have about the same effects as the pelvic bone. If she was quick enough to judge it, she could possibly pivot to the right in a swift motion away from Arya, and back up a few steps, so she would be out of harm. Arya would likely land upon the ground as if clearing a jump, but her front should would only injure more from the jump than before...

[Sequin]

Further effects of Lorien's attack

• The blow brought Arya to the ground, the fall brusing the un-hit shoulder
  
• The point of imact is lacerated severly, a fracture formed. It is very weak, no powerful kicks from the ligament. However the opposing is still able to do so.
  
• 
  

Arya's attack

• A powerful blow to the rump
  
• A rebound grazing the rib region
  

Effects of Arya's Attack

• The hind pillars of Lorien suddenly dipped do to the imact, the muscle torn. Joints ache very badly, this cannot be ignored.
  
• The rebound was not exact, no breaks inflicted. A deap laceration stands however.
  
  

[Lórien]

My Lórien is from no thick breed, her hierarchy lies within the confounds of a tall slender breed. She is of Calabrese and nothing more, nothing less. Her own breed as a long varied history, being a descended on horses originally found in the foreign lands of Italy prior to the founding of Rome. However, the breed’s characteristics started to evolve through the crossing Arab blood from the Bourbon period with both Andalusian and Thoroughbred stock. The breed originated in the region of Calabria in Southern Spain, from where it derives its name. During the middle Ages the Calabrese was famed for its spirit, a favorite choice for nights. All this because it was a spirited horse, strong enough to cope with the weight of armor and grueling distances they were forced to travel. Then with the new introduction of the Arabian, Andalusian, English Thoroughbred and Hackney blood, the breed further evolved. The thoroughbred blood had improved the breed adding quality and refinement, while the Arabian blood maintains the breed’s characteristics, toughness and their ability to withstand great distances. In appearance they have a refined head with a straight and somewhat convex profile. The neck is in perfect proportion with the body, and is well shapes and muscular while still managing to be quite slender. The chest is broad and deep and the shoulders sloping and smooth, allowing for good action and a quick, spring like action in the hind quarters for a short get away or perhaps an unusually lofty jump. They are compact through the body, with a short and strong back, muscular and sloping croup. They have slender but muscular legs with strong, well defined tendons, along with naturally well-formed feet. A rare combination, Lórien is one of three multihued Calabrese ever to have distinct patches of different color, and still have an unsullied blood line. Although Calabrese are generally 16 hands, our Lórien has exceeded that height to the point of 17.3 hands. Now enough about her history and on with the current chain of events.

A self-satisfied smile crawls up her pale lips as she trod off the sanded section. Seeing Arya had fallen to the ground, leaving her limb severely wounded. The sad quiet smile quickly faded as she regains focus on her current task. Diligent harks flick forward, no more then a flinch of skin to prove just of concentrated she was on the matter of listening. Each light flutter of wind through tangle of tree bough, each muted cry of bird sent the adrenaline flowing freely through her head. A quiet tussle sounded in the bed of lilacs just off to her right. Although her eyes did no move she recognized the hush of bird. It’s young fishing, digging inside the desiccated loam, their efforts appear fruitless from what she can hear. The quiet chirp of a starving chick melded with the exasperated breathing of her opponent as she watches Arya intently. Suddenly she uncovers a lone thought drifting through the rift of her mind and she begins a steady pace, weaving in circles around Arya again as if the fickle pattern will violate her sense of security.

She notes detail in her surroundings, mentally recording the direction of wind, the pattern in which the trees stand and how the outskirts of their playing field is spackled with tawny doe and their mates, crowding about to watch the show. Her eyes avert to a single tree, ancient and failing; from an open wound in the tree, a gelatinous red-gold syrup lathers across the twisted surface of bark. (note the way it oozes from the open wound, a miniscule etching.) The burgundy liquor slowly crawls it’s way down the tree-skin; following the riveted spaces, like a river of bronze fluid; flowing down to meet her lips compressed against tawny bark. In a flush of leg over leg, she raises a hoof, hesitating as it hangs above wet-land and mud-path carved from many passages through the ancient forest; fully furnished with wild-fern and grey-blue blossoms that flourish beneath the nurturing shade and shadow, moon-washed melody and night-wish.

The dirt in their arena is quite dry, the parched soil rises in small puffs of russet powder, forming diminutive flecks of dibre scattered haphazardly across her slender legs. The sad grey clouds that crowd above them seem oblivious to the soil’s dire need of nurturing with the glorious fluid only they can provide. Yet Lórien does not mind, my star-child calm and refined. Her lithesome physique is bathed in pale-purple moon-light. The novel sprouts shying away from violet radiance. Through the shadows her amethyst eyes revolve, catching the mauve shine; the plum smolders of star-dust dance across the tender small of her back. Her hooves are dark and black, although at this point you are unable to tell from the cloud of dust that rises above, shielding her pale grey legs like an auburn veil. Blossom petals shy away from moon-wash; in a flush of sultry, brackish wind a bushel of tiny blue-grey flora are pressed against the bark of tree, their brilliant virgin petals flaking from the olive roots that wedge them securely into the crackling sod.

There was no room for fear here. In this place fear ceased to exist, for fear was the mind killer. Perhaps a faint glimmer existed, for without it there would be less sharp reflexes. It was needed, in some instances, to propel the body in a way that would not normally be allowed; fear drove us past our normal limits in to a space where we were not hindered by normal thoughts and hesitance. In that way, fear existed, but it was pain that was erased. The battlefield was a place where pain was born, but ignored. There would be no acknowledging the hurt until a later moment, when your opponent was not breathing down your neck. They would see weakness, and thus you could not pay it mind. It was a talent that she had long ago learned, and used now.

Arya’s attack was a quick move, she must admit, yet as predictable as the moment her hind muscle convulses as she springs forward. Still managing her to vaguely balance on her portly, injured limb. All sympathy drains from her pensive figure, watching Arya closely for any sign of another attack. Her first attempt is a clear miss, without even alarming Lórien in the least of ways, yet as she springs forward Lórien is prepared, strategically placing her body at such an angle where Arya’s hoof grazes her shoulder and complies such forceful impact from her corpulent body that Lórien is momentarily knocked off balance. In a flush of leg over leg, the blur of her hooves crossing one another as she struggles to regain balance; only seconds after the impact she was grapling to stay on all four feet without tumbling. Yet this time she retreated to a pulsing canter, the tender throb of pain shot down through her limb at each step despite the miniscule abrade across her haunches and the minor chafe of scars that surround it.

A deep laceration was drawn in a clean line across her hind end. A thick syrupy red-brown liquid dribbles from the wound, spattering across the portion of black-white skin that lies beneath it. The pain is intense but managable, refusing to put much wieght on her right hind leg, she hobbles forward still in a fluid canter, her front limbs grappling forward to keep from pushing with her hind.

Overhead the vultures circled and screamed, though she ignored them. There was no time to be distracted by her surroundings, for as the sun sunk lower over the horizon they danced during the early hours of night. In the dark it was more difficult to avoid attacks, and while it could be done she did not wish to be returning home any later than necessary. It would be a long walk, and slow, for no doubt she would not leave this mock battle as well off as she had arrived. Perhaps he would grace her with his company on the walk home, or perhaps she would be left to stumble on her own; regardless it would be quite the return.

Redirecting the hit toward Arya she begins cutting corners, perhaps dizzying Arya to a higher extent. She does this knowing full well that Arya would follow her revolving body, keeping her eyes locked onto Lórien’s own brilliant pale green-gold eyes; hidden within the shade of forelock. She pivots on her hind piston, forming a spring like action but averting her attack off a tad, making it seem as though she was forging, yet again, her attack. As she passes Arya she turnes, pivoting swiftly on her slender front limbs, her hind positioned directly on Arya's wounded side, her hooves directed at the middle portion of Arya’s rib, plunging with all her force pin pointing her attack in the groove between to ribs, hopefully puncturing her skin. Although her attack is made with the uninjured portion of her haunches, she retracts the injured limb close to her belly. If Arya takes a step away from Lórien, her hooves will perhaps shatter a few ribs and knock her off balance, although causing Lórien to stumble upon landing. If Arya takes a step backward her front ribs will be injured severely. The same if she takes a step forward but the right portion and upper section of the pelvis bone may take the hit, hindering both her mobility and her function when turning. If she is somehow able dodge the hit by swinging her hind end around her neck and jugular would take a bruising to.

My Lórien is oblivious to the spectacle of shadow and light she brings with each simple step; comatose of her own lucid antics, no more a pageant then the wanderlust of her eyes; green-gold as the light bends through them. She is silent now, the slight after-glow of a smile dusted across fair lips. She draws no further attention to herself, her body never having stopped from its revolving around.

[Sequin]

[did you use your dodge? Your attack cannot be compleated if not.]

[Lórien]

why not then ? she didnt dodge it, she has a deep laceration on the upper portion of her right shoulder .. or maybe it was left .

[kemor admin]

[The hind pillars of Lorien suddenly dipped do to the imact, the muscle torn. Joints ache very badly, this cannot be ignored. I am just warning, rearing would only bring damage to yourself]

[Lórien]

i was under the impression the skin was torn not the muscle ligament. if so then i will edit the post specifying that her left hind limb was the one to give most of the power as well as her front hooves, grappleing to push her up...

[kemor admin]

[alright thanks, don't think i was being rude about the post. It would suck to do damage to yourself b/c you did not understand the judges call. You don't have to edit, just would be wise.]

[Lórien]

Kemor i believe it has been a week since Arya replied. so Lorien is the new alpha of Froid correct ?

[Sequin]

Lórien
is the winner by default. You are granted lead

[aaa11]

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