Perla approaches the tilt, Segunda is a formidable steed, not quite her predecessor of course but she is close. She observes her opponent, appraising their armor and their horse. It pleases her, she enjoys a well equipped opponent. The contrast of the pale steel and the inky destrier is striking. She canโt see its eyes, she has always found such helms unnerving.
Ser Ichory
She hears the herald announce, a name unfamiliar to her. The blood of gods. How conceited. Surely thatโs not their given name.
The trumpets sound and Segunda canters forward. She lowers her lance, bracing for impact. Both lances break.
She circles back. An even score so far.
@ichorlikeher
The black destrier has no name, it should have a name shouldn't it? Then again, does it even have a name? Ichor... Ichory... it hated it... it hates its own name. But what choice did it have, like it's most recent memories, they were not its own.
The armor it adorned was not its own, or so now it was. It was all too confusing to keep track of. Oddly enough it almost seemed to mock Perla's armor. White steel on White steel. His armet helm however was done up in the style of an angry boar, two tusks jutting out from the lips of his viser. What a cruel joke. And yet it focused on none of that... it had to taste blood. And if it could not do that it would at least win this bout.
Charing forward and a loud- "CRACK!" Wood shattering upon impact. A broken lance, nothing more, nothing truly gained. 'Blood. I want to taste blood.' It thought before it took up it's new lance and charged again.
It was a God once? Was it not? How can it not have destroyed this worthless little mortal yet? It had to prove itself, if it didn't what was it? The pounding of the soft ground beneath it's destrier pounded. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. It was charging at full speed now, a new lance in hand. I will taste blood. I will taste blood. I wil...
What am I doing? What am I? Am I anything anymore? What is the nature of my being?
Time slows. It was an angel once? Or a god. The lines become blurred when you put mortal words to immortal concepts. It was older than any of that terminology. And before 'it' stood a creature that once devoted itself to it's God, or her God, again, it's hard to tell in such fleshy forms.
Be well my child, the match is yours-- ๅ -ๅ ๅ ๐๐๐ฯ! ฮฏ โ๐ั๐โก๐๐ ั๐ ๏ฝเนๅ ! ฮฏ โ๐ั๐โก๐๐ ั๏ผจเนั. ๏ปฎ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ฤค๏ผจฤค๏ผจ๏ผจ๏ผจฤค!
Before it realizes it the blunted tip was shoving them inexorably off of it's ride- flying off the destrier and towards the soft ground. Mortal. Flesh and bone. Consumed by the worms. Lost.
