Oh, but that was what he wanted to do.

Make her bend, make her bow. Make her kiss the ground before his paws and beg his forgiveness.

They are dark and wicked thoughts, but Alaric is enraged -- not only because of the challenge (because that plays a small part, in fact) but because of what is has caused. There is war in his pridelands and he can feel the effects of bloodloss (can feel the wounds barely healed tear open again) and knows he will not be able to fight with them. It is all he can do to focus on the goal at hand, to keep their home safe -- he would have to trust his soldiers to do the rest.

Cassandra's paws thump back to the ground, but Alaric does not remove his right leg from where it had struck. The wheat King seeks to take a shuffling step closer on three legs, attempting to slide his right paw further along her back. He attempts to sink his claws in to the flesh on the opposite side, hooking over top of her and applying steady pressure. Alaric aims to lean as much of his weight as he can in to the spot in an effort to force her down.

So intent on his goal he feels the shift of her weight but does not seek to prevent the attack she sends flying at his face. Her claws again strike true and the right side of his face is all but torn open. Between his vicious fight with Saga and this one now he feels the flesh tear away. Not enough to open a hole through, thankfully, but there is little doubt in his mind that he will be permanently marked. Before she can hook her claws in to bone (or threaten his jaw too much) he jerks his head away, relinquishing his grip on her neck with a vicious snarl.

The snarl turns in to a loud and thunderous roar directed right at her face -- not an attack, but a reminder that he is the King. An intimidation attempt, to see if he can force this mousy girl to cower before him.


Alaric vs. @Cassandra
for EM
Round 5/5
Hits:

Rolling 8d20: 13 + 1 + 6 + 19 + 11 + 9 + 12 + 5

Dodges:

Rolling 3d20: 16 + 6 + 8

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 6 + 8 + 7 + 20 + 3

code by corvus

As the others before him, so too does the grey lion venture toward the Mire, intent on satisfying curiosity. Will Erna's consort retain his reign, or will the challenger dethrone him? Hearing the call doesn't surprise Odhgrimm, it had always seemed a matter of time, but it does nestle a morsel of disgust in the pit of his stomach. Cassandra's voice is undeniably feminine, and the Rike again wonders at the worth of a pride in this realm. Sanctuary, sure, he can acknowledge as he surveys the dense thicket of the jungle as it comes into view. Security? Amaryllis has taught him quickly that nein, there is none of that here.

Caution does not leave him, an ingrained habit after years of practice, stride patient even as a powerful summons reaches across the landscape. Swinging an ear forward with renewed interest, a brow slowly working its' way to perch loftily across the plane of his forehead, the man even takes a moment to pause, then. On the edge of the fields, he casts a sluggish glance around, wondering if he'll spy sleek shapes sneaking toward Ecrosia. Is this not just a squabble for leadership? Is this a raid? Wind drags through his beard, and Odhgrimm breathes deep the fresh air, tasting flowers and herbs.

Not for the first time he thinks of home, limbs beginning to take him forward again, and before long his bulk is engulfed in trees. There's calm about him, a steadiness to his breaths and a looseness in his muscles, but his eyes are vigilant, his senses alert for others. War is not unfamiliar to him. Death no longer bothers him as it did when he was a boy. Pain is not a prospect that unsettles him, nor scars or loss or suffering. The dwindle of their number is the only concern he can acknowledge. His sister inevitably will be in the middle of it, too willful and volatile a creature to ignore the disrespect at her doorstep. Would her children (if they're even alive) follow her?

Commotion becomes louder than the squelch of his many-toed paws, and he's glad for something to drown the dreadful sound. Why anyone would fight for this place, he cannot guess. Weighted, mud caked inside his thighs, on his forearms, the beast pauses again when the bare glimpses of flesh become apparent between the fronds and boughs. Enacting a slight stalk, he moves haltingly, distinctly cat-like with intent to drink greedily whatever details his eyes might provide before he dives in deep. Plentiful are the fights, and though he spies adolescents ripping at each other, the Jarl does not see any young enough to be his nieces and/or nephews. Vaguely, he thinks he'll need to meet them soon, at least to know what they look like.

Focusing more on the cluster near his blood, Odhgrimm hums quietly in seeing the chimera at the losing end of Erna's ferocity. Archetypal. It's easy to guess that one of those lionesses will be killed today, here, soon. Mildly surprising though is the other assortments of battle, most unknown to him but some recognizable, enemies. Lips quivering, he thinks it's a shame he wasn't close enough (never quick enough, his pace is perfect thanks v much) to go after the likes of quite a few that are already engaged. All along he's been compiling his shit list, and still it continues to grow- the likes of @Parvati making the cut.

Screeching as she is (it's Morrigan, then, that big bitch's name?), it's hard not to notice her there, squirreling about in the center of things with close proximity to quite a few of the fights. It's difficult to discern her affiliation, truly, what with her being hysterical and the stench of this land coiling nauseatingly in his nostrils. But the name drop and her general being-in-the-way entices Odhgrimm to get her to move the fuck on if she wasn't going to bleed alongside her comrades. Besides, he kind of wants to be where she's at, in the thick of things yet able to observe easily for advantageous angles.

Intent on bullying her out of his way, the Rike stalks toward her with his neck slung low, ears back. Hoping to come at her quite suddenly, he attempts to shove a shoulder roughly into her, aiming for nothing other than center mass. Jaws loosing a snarl of warning, lips flashing yellowed teeth, and his narrowed eyes spare her a brief amount of attention to witness how she'll react. Need he use more force? Perhaps flash a blade in the girl's direction to get her to run? Odhgrimm is not above it, especially not in a setting like this. If she knows what's good for her, she'll get fucking lost, pronto. This is her only warning.

Odhgrimm vs. @Parvati
Get the Fuck Outta the Way/Minor Maim
Round One of Five

Hits:

Rolling 8d20: 5 + 15 + 8 + 3 + 7 + 4 + 17 + 19

Dodges:

Rolling 4d20: 18 + 1 + 16 + 6

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 5 + 15 + 18 + 7 + 10

NO VICTIM, NO CRIME

table by sentinel / art

Just as the Wolfbron lioness had tried earlier, this time she succeeded. Shiva came at her, aiming swats at her face, and whether it was the fatigue getting to her, the droaning roars and yelps from the battlefield all around her, the heavy scent of blood in the air, or the moisture in the grass that Shiva knew was not water, she faltered. She let her enemy get the upper hand, and her lips drew back in a pained snarl as @Charax caught her paw in her mouth and shook with such a force, Shiva felt several bones in her paw crack and rattle.

Fuck.

There wasn't much she had an option to with her paw trapped like it was, and she frantically sought to offer the woman the same pain. Parting her jaws, she attempted to bite at the woman's head, hoping to catch one of her stupid ears between her gnashing teeth as well as any meaty part of that clay-hued head of hers. Shiva was mad.

---

Shiva vs. @Charax
Minor Maim (Torn Ear)
Round 1 2 3 4 5
Hits:

Rolling 7d20: 18 + 10 + 14 + 19 + 9 + 13 + 5

Dodges:

Rolling 5d20: 8 + 3 + 4 + 16 + 10

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 15 + 7 + 11 + 1 + 4

code | image

Charax might have happily reminded her opponent that she was a mere, peaceful observer when Shiva launched her assault - a fact of which is made all the more sweet as she feels her tongue press against the woman's paw. Mud and blood lined her maw, the typically reserved and cautious lioness anything but in that crucial moment.

Shiva's teeth find her right ear, piercing, tearing at cartilage. The white woman was seemingly desperate, enraged, her teeth also grazing at Charax's forehead and peeling away clay fur. The marbled lioness would have liked to know this unknown figure, would have loved to learn the reasons for violence and determination.

Alas, the Scout knows that there will be no talking after this fight.

In a last hurrah, the agile female attempts to shake her head violently; trying to break her opponent free from her ear and perhaps worsen any damage she can inflict to her paw. Then, she seeks to withdraw. This was over.

Charax vs @Shiva
Minor Maim - Round 5 of 5
(now for Broken Paw - Sammiie requested this change from toe removal)
Hits:

Rolling 5d20: 9 + 19 + 11 + 10 + 17

Dodges:

Rolling 6d20: 15 + 8 + 17 + 5 + 11 + 1

Luck:

Rolling 6d20: 9 + 16 + 4 + 13 + 10 + 14

_{* +1 Luck to Wolfbron from Charax (Lead Scout)}

_{art by aurora}

ooc: bee has a fight partner intended, pls do not attack her <3

She is drawn to the fight just as her pridemates are, drifting in behind Amara. They are, at the very least, on neutral terms with the Mire king, and that is enough to make the Bezra interested in the outcome. She cannot, however, say she is quite expecting the scene that unfolds as she nears. The sound of fighting rings through the trees, and she is cautious on her approach, sticking to hilly high ground with her hackles raised, everything about her posture defensive and alert.

And there, in the thick of it all, a woman fights Alaric who she recognizes — Myrkvi's...friend. Other familiar faces are locked in the throes of battle, and she recognizes a number of Sigrún in the fray. Are they ever not a part of these things? Asmund, she knows, will see all things right in the end.

+5 - Observe a fight [1/2] (Cassandra vs Alaric)

MORE WOLF THAN WOMAN

table by sentinel / art

He knows not what stunt @Freya may have pulled in her own home. All he knows is that her leader keeps her captive and she does not care for it. He does not care for the leader of the Mire and now was a good a time as any to prove a point. Leander Miroslav stands readied, mismatched gaze surveying and his ears flickering with every sound that resonated nearby -- knowing full well that nothing was fair in war and anyone could sneak up on him at any given moment.

And he does well to be overly prepared -- for his opponent is steady in her approach, giving little away as to her location. She announces her arrival with a smart line and without further ado, launches herself in his direction -- a paw coming to lash at his left temple.

Patched male attempts to lunge forward, his opponent's right paw now embedded into the far side of his left cheek, where mane met skin. He feels a sting where the woman's claws dig into flesh, a snarl imprinted on his jowls as Leander gives himself little time to revel in his fresh wounds. He aims to close the distance between them, left shoulder aiming to barge square into Brynja's chest. Simultaneously, the Miroslav attempts to latch his opened jowls onto the plump flesh of the Mire woman's left cheek.

@Leander vs @Brynja
For @Freya
1 / 3

Hits:

Rolling 7d20: 17 + 12 + 11 + 5 + 14 + 15 + 16

Dodges:

Rolling 5d20: 4 + 20 + 2 + 19 + 12

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 2 + 18 + 20 + 11 + 4

IMAGE COPYRIGHT NESLA

the old gods are dead He does not mean to come for war, but the call draws him in all the same. A siren’s battlecry, as familiar as it is dreaded. His mother’s voice, carried by the winds. He would know it anywhere, in death or sleep. He has no choice but to answer it, not with his voice - because the moment Saga’s voice touches him, he becomes mute - but he stands from his sprawled position at Fallon’s side, and as if pulled by strings moves after it. Whether Fallon follows or not, he has no idea. He goes. And arrives on a battlefield. It’s not his first, and unless he dies here today it won’t be his last. But unlike every other war, he has no idea who is who - and who is Sigrun and who is the enemy. But he sees her, and everything else sort of fades out. Saga. His mother. Fighting for her life - or fighting to take one. The Sigrun feels cold, ice coating his lungs. She can’t die - not like this. Not now. Still mute, Falki looks around as if he can find help - and there’s familiar faces, and some that look like the ghosts of the long dead. New Sigruns, some he will never know. Loyal followers of a god that gives nothing back, and expects bloodshed as offerings. Expects their lives. The pattern repeats, and it seems endless. Falki is not exactly hiding, but is at the edge of the battle watching Saga v Erna. Older Sigruns (from outside Ama) might vaguely recognize him. He is also either a rogue or WB at this time, not sure yet.

code // art // do not use without permission

As always, Fallon is never too far behind @Fálki -- the pair near attached at the hip. For once, her companion travels at a speed that is hard to keep up with -- the challenge drawing in the Sigrun with an eagerness that has the Salem figurine curious. She has already spectated at previous pride challenges and they had all been rather dull and short-lived. Why would this be any different?

Well, her answer laid in Fálki's dumbstruck expression, the Salem woman following his gaze to two women engaged in fierce battle. Their intentions are clear -- there would only be one lioness left standing. "What the hell is going on?" she asks him plainly, Fallon beginning to realise that perhaps Fálki knew one of the woman engaged in the battle. There are many other's and he is simply entranced by one -- there had to be good reason for this.

Fallon is observing on the outskirts with Fálki

table by ferus, art by argenticide

can i kiss you before i kill you? She is familiar with the concept of challenges, but she has yet to encounter one so close to home. Is she supposed to feel fear, and worry? Any loving mother naturally would, she supposes, but nothing of the sort alights in Freya's breast. No, she only feels curiosity — and a bit of excitement. The prospect of a good show is always enough to entice her out of the shadows. The assassin is, however, cautious, and she decides to take the high road. Whilst the curve of her growing belly is noticeable now, it is not quite yet a hindrance, and she is able to clamber her way into the first tree without much difficulty. From there, Freya begins a winding path through the branches, using the close proximity of the foliage to maneuver from one tree to the next. As she goes, she hears a very familiar voice — calling for her freedom. A slow grin coils across her lips, and the fighting begins to come into view below her. So many fights, more than she has ever seen. What catches her attention next, however, is slight movement in the branches ahead of her. Flicking her ears forward curiously, Freya launches from her current perch onto the next tree, her claws digging into the bark as she makes her way to where @Zelda is lounging and avidly watching a battle beneath her. Amusingly enough, she finds that she, too, knows Violarum's opponent. Small world, it would seem. And not too far off, there is @Leander, battling none other than @Brynja. How are those wounds of hers? With a soft snicker, she reclines on a neighboring branch to the Mire yearling. "Quite a show, isn't it?" she muses, clearly entertained by the whole situation, even if it is her own fate that's up in the air. She would gladly go with the piebald man if he wins; no one has ever fought for her before — only over her, and this seems distinctly different. Leander is the only one who seems willing to grant her the freedom she has always craved.

code // art // do not use without permission

Brynja's paw did meet some of his body and she began to drag it thus downwards, attempting to trace down from his cheek, towards his mane and down as far along him as she could until whatever point it freed and would finish the rest of the descent to the ground. But before she could replant her paw and secure balance his shoulder bruised into her chest, the bare and sparse fur there offering absolutely no padding against the impact, perhaps the greyish ugly hue of her skin would hide the painful bruise that would result there over her muscles?

His teeth met her left cheek below, slightly behind, her left eye. Tender flesh easily tore and became like rubied, grey, ribbons as his teeth ripped through and then free in the easily severed flesh. Brynja hissed angrily, pulling her head backwards defensively putting space there rather than offensively attacking with her teeth.

@Leander vs. Brynja
For @Freya
Round {2} / 3
Hits:

Rolling 7d20: 9 + 5 + 2 + 12 + 15 + 16 + 19

Dodges:

Rolling 5d20: 2 + 8 + 10 + 18 + 17

Luck:

Rolling 5d20: 20 + 19 + 17 + 7 + 11