@Faolán VS. @Draven FOR Minor Maim
— RESULTS —

Faolán Hits: 4 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 4 luck = 12
Faolán Dodges: 2 + 4 + 2 + 4 = 12

Draven Hits: 6 + 4 + 4 + 8 luck = 22
Draven Dodges: 2 + 3 + 1 = 6

Faolán Successful Hits: 6
Draven Successful Hits: 10

DRAVEN HAS WON THE CHALLENGE FOR MINOR MAIM!

Please allow the challengers to respond to the fight results first. As per the site rules, if 3 days go by without a post from the challenger(s), they can be skipped. Whichever comes first! Any posts made before this will be removed, unless you are posting to another fight.

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WOUNDED ROLL

performed on discord by @Shark

Faolán is automatically WOUNDED for losing!

Draven Wounded Roll: 3

Draven is WOUNDED!

Profiles will be adjusted to reflect the wounded rolls, which, if received, reduce the character’s hits and dodges by -1 for a standardized amount of time. Any wounded rolls received from this fight are considered healed as of 23rd April 2023, and are logged in the wounded log. Once healed, post in Trade & Dice Updates to have your dice returned to normal.

She ends up pn her back, with solid cold ice below and him above. Sandwiched between them, she can do nothing but struggle and thrash and she does. Her claws sink into his arm, her face so pretty with flecks of blood from his teeth -- she is a mess of blues and reds, the fire in her eyes not dimming. Not even now, when she is so solidly beat.

Not even now, when his hand goes to her throat.

His weight is a heavy thing, a barrier to fight past. Here, centered on her throat though, it is damning. Her breath hitches, her windpipe beneath his hand; it comes in short, ragged pants. Frantic and hitched like so often in his company, as she stares up at him with wide eyes. He leans so precariously over, the wound from his nose bridge dripping blood to splatter against her. On her face, her neck, her chest -- he rains divinity over her.

And finally, she is forced to slow down.

Her hands come to rest against the arm he has against her throat, fingers digging into him -- no claws, now, even as she pants. Even as she listens, and doesn't believe him. And yet... @Draven was no humble beast. If he had taken sheol, whisked her away to get his revenge, he would be happy to crow about it. It would not be hidden. Her ears, formerly tucked so tight against her skull, twitch to raise.

I need her, she says lowly, with a voice like gravel. Her throat vibrates underneath his wide palm, rattling her and him alike. This is a vow in itself, ammo given almost easily. A vow, and a threat both. She does not trust him but she has no choice -- pinned as she is, beaten as she is. If he is lying, she will return for him. She will come for his throat again and again and again. She will not stop until he is dead or she is, unless...

Unless they can find sheol.

( together? )

BG — ART — CODE

Madness howls in his mind, a screaming God demanding penance for this slight. Craving ruin for those that would rise against Him, those that would bring bloodshed to his bedchambers. Bjorn presses heavily in to her neck, fingers splayed wide, ice-eyes riveted there.

So small beneath his grasp, so dainty. So breakable.

His breath comes in hot pants that only serve to splatter the blood further across her face, the movement drawing the intensity of his stare. Draven is a thousand miles away, locked firmly in the pull of memory, toes twitching where they press against her neck. The sight of his own blood sends him spiralling in to the past, snagged by the recollect of his body being rent apart. Four pieces, four pieces, four pieces.

I need her.

A scoff, first, a snarl. A rise of head, towering, looming. Consumed by his God who wants to kill for the wrongs placed against him.

But --

her paw falls gentle against his arm

-- he blinks.

Blinks and the pressure relents from her neck, his weight removed in a blur of movement. Recoiling, sides heaving, blood dripping, eyes wide and wild. Draven has no words for her, no answer to give, too tenuous is his grip on reality. Hovering on the edge of past and present, splaying his toes against the solid ground, now, in a frantic determination to ground himself.

"We will --" gritted teeth, grinding, flailing, reaching (for that delicate red thread) --"find her."

Together.

Her view does not spark any memory prior; the sight of his red blood against wintry blues does not make her lapse into the past. She does not remember the details of that night in the grotto. She only vaguely remembers waking up and choking on her own blood, his slippery hands the only thing holding her together. Snd here, that very same hand holds her down.

Finally he relents, pulling his weight from her. A ragged breath escapes her, a swell of relief even as her skin tingles from the sudden lack of contact. It's cool in his room without white-hot rage flossing her veins, and him pinning herdown. Slowly, she seeks to sit up -- folding herself up primly as she sits. Waiting, considering. Unsure what to do next. When he speaks she looks to him, peering st him as if she might see right through the eye.She hears the unspoken word. Let's it linger in the air between them and doesntbring attention to it. But she heards it all the same. Mismatched eyes cut to him, considering.

Together -- and everything it entailed.

Still, she presses. Presses forward and presses her luck. Your brothers? She asks, voice wuist and vulnerable. He might not have done anything to her but what of the other bjorn? How long has ansgar been out of view, anyway? Long enough to whisk a certain misbehaving maiden away? She, too, is curious -- would they help? Would they care?

why do you care, draven?

BG — ART — CODE

your brothers?

a delicate ask met with a vicious snarl, a burst of anger that is uncharacteristic for the (usually) quiet sentinel. draven walks too closely to the edge, though, and every word feels like needling. "i do not speak for them," he grits between those same teeth, bloodstained and knife-sharp.

he does not look at her as he says it, his eyes locked determinedly on his toes as they splay across the ground. on the blood that rises from the marks left by her claws -- marks that would scar? why did he find that idea appealing? -- on anything but her.

he is aware enough of the weakness she brings and the control that she steals away; in this moment he cannot stand to lose any more of it.

"go." a command wrapped in a plea and masking a warning -- go, or i will not be able to stop myself.

(but oh, you'd like that wouldn't you, little wolf?)

The growl explodes in the quiet, it fills the air and stretches to every corner of his icy room. Despite herself she flinches, pulling at the fresh wounds and still-healing scars upon her throat. The tightness of her skin sings with pain, a dulcet accompaniment to the rumbling tenor of his growl.

He does not speak for his brothers even if they all share the same spirit, splintered though it may be. Perhaps she would offer the same trade to them, then -- perhaps she would fight each of them, too. The brothers might not be a United front but the sisters would be, once sheol was returned to her, safe and sound.

Suddenly, she is tired.

She is so tired.

There is no fight left in her, not right now.He says to go and the command rankles, but she rises to her feet. Mismatched eyes shift to him only briefly before she goes as instructed, her ears ringing with the sudden silence. The only sound as she leaves is the click-clack of bloodied claws upon the ice, as she returns to her own room, alone. She will patch herself up there, alone.

Alone -- again, still, always.

together, his promise rings dully in her ears.

Exit

BG — ART — CODE