foredated ~a week
the warlord lingers at the shore of a lake painted with all the vibrancy of a dying day. the water is cool, a balm against the sandpaper that lines her throat. she steps into the shallows as she sates her thirst, the water laping up and around her forepaws, a school of tiny fish scattering like a dozen slivers of light. restlessness tugs, and she desires only to throw herself into something physical. it is the frustration of knowing that her body is almost, but not quite, made whole once again. her back limb still does not possess the sturdiness it did, and her shoulder aches deep when she overworks it. but each day these things fade, and she knows she is close.
her muzzle is pulled from the shallows, tongue moving over her lips to catch at the water droplets lodged there. rain threatens, as it had since early that morning, and everything is edged with grey and gloom. with a sharp exhale, she tilts back her crown and issues a summons for a partner; it's a spar she wants, she's decided, and it has been far too long since she'd fought and trained regularly.
Donovan heard the howl and he recognizes the vague sound of Hela’s voice in it. He will answer to it, wondering why she’s summoning.
He’s bounding in her direction legs powering him into a string gallop and his coal tinted tongue us panting heavily as he does so. Before light he’s approaching her slowly growing figure. He slows down and trots to stop a comfortable distance away from her. A greeting smile tilts his panting smile upwards briefly. He nods his chin up to her. “You called for someone. It seems I’m the first to arrive.”
the looming silhouette as it approaches is recognizable, almost immediately, as donovan. a flick of her tailtip as he grows near enough to state the obvious, and she reiterates after a beat, "a spar." a quick glance up and down the height of him, noting the smaller discrepancies in the way he holds himself, moves.
when any sort of agreement or acknowledgment of this is offered, she shifts into a stance better benefitting swift movement. a flick of a lobe, waiting for the leader's breath to slow, and then, "we'll begin." she does not seek to test him as she had derg; it is apparent enough that he is a warrior, and likely a good one. when her first attack comes, it is swift and doubtless. she lunges forward, her left shoulder thrust out to meet his while her fangs snap for the side of his head and neck. it is meant to unbalance and while she feels the strain of it in her still-healing limbs, it is bearable.
Roll here! I forgot to add his bonus. So his hit would be 10. (;ω;)
All she replies with is the fact that she wants to spar. He doesn’t even contemplate his answer, already muttering out a quirky “I thought you’d never ask.” Though he doesn’t get to rest long. Donovan catches his breath and eventually his tongue is seated back in his maw. Almost instantly the large she-wolf is on him. Taking her hearty shove and the bite to his neck. It jostles his preexisting wounds and his lip crinkles in a snarl. She’s serious it seems. That’s means he too has to be serious — something he really doesn’t do often.
He contemplates his next move, feeling the teeth at his neck and face. Finally, he decides where to hit her next. Shooting his head to the left towards her body, his dangerous maw grabs a hold of her scruff, just above her shoulder. He looks to even give her a bit of a shake of luck will permit it.