They play at this game of swooping and dodging for a while, and Naesala knows that he is losing. He may be faster, but Tibarn is stronger, and his speed can only buy him so much time. The wind sweeps past his head and he makes a feint for the right and heads left, and he wonders how long he can keep this up.
He doesn't really care about the result. After all, he knows that death here is but temporary. He suspects Tibarn doesn't, which is all fine by him. His plan is to be temporarily inconvenienced once, and then return, much to the Hawk King's chagrin, and hopefully not die any more times. He supposes he ought to be thinking something suitably as befitting a martyr, but he doesn't particularly feel like it.
Tibarn shows no sign of tiring; he carries with him the blood of Phoenicis. He can sense Naesala slowly losing his edge--a sloppy turn, a more obvious feint. It's only a matter of time. Just one good shot will be enough; from there, it's all down hill. Naesala will slow and the game will end. Just one solid hit, to the wings or the head or maybe even the breast. Just one.
A screech sounds from his beak as he presses his advantage, his slashes and tears still missing but creeping closer. He doesn't think. He doesn't even feel--no anger, or pain. His instinct drives him, as it always has. A hawk warrior of Phoenicis, his flesh and blood. He sees only his foe.
He ought to be feeling something. Sadness, regret - any of that. He can’t, though, and he doesn’t particularly care. Didn’t they say that one’s life flashed before one’s eyes before death? All that flashes before his eyes is a canopy of green. He spares a thought for Lenalee, and if he had a mouth instead of a beak, he would have smiled.
Tibarn watches Naesala fall, blood on his talons and a screech in his throat, this one of triumph. He lands, taking human form, and gives Naesala's body a glance. Just for a second. Then he turns and takes wing again--there is no sport, no satisfaction in tearing apart a corpse. It's done now.
But it's not done yet. Tibarn probably thinks he's killed him. Hah. You can't kill a raven that easily -- Tibarn, of all people, ought to know that. But Naesala doesn't care about Tibarn's hastiness. In fact, right now, he's positively thankful of it. He manages to land on something soft, and he doesn't really care what it is at this point. Winner takes all, he remembers, but there's nothing really to take. Then, his world goes black as he gives in to the pain.
Do what you want with me. Kilvas is safe. That's all I need to know.
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Maybe you'll have time to spit it out before I take your head from your shoulders.
*lunging at Naesala now, assuming they're talking face to face*
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Tell me, what would you do for your country?
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A king is nothing without his country. It is his greatest burden and his only will.
Phoenicis will be avenged today.
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Well said, Hawk King. Well said.
Phoenicis may be avenged, but Kilvas will live.
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*transforming now*
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((OOC: I actually dunno if you wanted to play out the whole fight or not. Thoughts?))
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[He transforms and swoops away, since he has the advantage of speed. He's also being purely defensive.]
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[Tibarn pulls up and redirects, wasting no time. He shoots after Naesala, following him as close as he can while waiting for an opening to strike.]
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He doesn't really care about the result. After all, he knows that death here is but temporary. He suspects Tibarn doesn't, which is all fine by him. His plan is to be temporarily inconvenienced once, and then return, much to the Hawk King's chagrin, and hopefully not die any more times. He supposes he ought to be thinking something suitably as befitting a martyr, but he doesn't particularly feel like it.
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A screech sounds from his beak as he presses his advantage, his slashes and tears still missing but creeping closer. He doesn't think. He doesn't even feel--no anger, or pain. His instinct drives him, as it always has. A hawk warrior of Phoenicis, his flesh and blood. He sees only his foe.
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Then he drops into the forest below.
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Over and done.
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It's not done yet.
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