Redsand Canyon she held her pose

looking for a harbinger thread. can be warrior or leadership/taking charge focused! | location: bloodsoaked beach

though praimfaya is a firm believer in reincarnation — for she, herself is a commander in a long line of precursors — she doesn't necessarily believe in magick. the ritual of bloodshed was easy enough to link to the spirits of the commanders past though unbeknownst to her it is a bloodline and not some initiation as her people would believe. regardless, the wanheda cannot help the slight tremor at the nape of her neck, a tingling at her spine, as she steps along the sangria sands, water pushing the crimson bejewled sands against the silverlit of her paws only to recede back and look like blood smeared across her paws.

in a rare occurrence, praimfaya is breathless as she sniffs at the sand and water: noting that it smells like bay; algae and tepid water that mixes with salt that it either steals from the redrock or directly from the ocean itself ...though she knows they are far enough from the coast that she doesn't think this particular water source derives from the sea. thus, it is an anomaly; fascinating to be sure if not a bit nostalgic to the commander as she is reminded, starkly, of her conclave.

renard took the shore slowly, water lapping over their paws. the sun was low enough to cast shadows deep into the lake, deep enough they no longer had to stay quite so close to the canyon walls. the sound of waves, weak as they were, was more than enough to mask their steps.

not a patrol this time. there were still places in the canyon left to explore – the catacombs themselves had eaten up most of their attention, a lot of possibilities there – but they weren’t expecting praimfaya to have beaten them here.

perhaps they should have been. whatever she was doing in redsand canyon was not out of newfound loyalty to the saints.

she was too smart for that.

“praimfaya,” renard greeted her with a dip of their muzzle. “if you’re not busy,” an amused note as they ran their eyes over her nose, pressed to the blood-red sand, “you promised me a spar.”

praimfaya.

she turns her head in the direction of her name, recognizing the voice enough by now to place it immediately as renard's. she worries that she is becoming too familiar with them ...and wonders spontaneously in the next instant if it is only to be expected for they pretty much know her secret and though loathe as she is to admit it, holds her life betwixt their jaws. that is more trust then she wants to give but is forced to nonetheless.

renard, she greets them with a brush of her tail against her hocks; a low throaty hum in her voice.

not busy, she admits and adds with a lofty shrug of her shoulders, admiring the bizarre color of the water. if she were an inspiring ecologist she might try to deduce what causes it but she isn't and truthfully doesn't care beyond whether or not it was safe enough to drink — not that she was brave enough in that respect to try it.

so i have, she purls, stretching in the crimson froth of the water, pacing out of it leisurely, approaching them. i take it you've come to collect? she guesses, tensing into a defensive position, frostbound gaze locking upon him.

roll here!

not so long ago, renard would have been willing to give finley’s thoughts of mutiny directly to donovan if he’d asked. for all their half-formed ideas and plans they were, in the end, loyal, when it came down to it. but donovan had not asked, and he’d welcomed in praimfaya without a second thought, and derailed renard’s final attempt to tell him, in as direct a fashion as they could manage, that this wasn’t working by flirting instead.

if he wanted this knowledge – and wasn’t it staring him right in the face? – he could come to it himself.

they glanced down over the water. her paws were already stained – their own dark fur kept much from being visible. it reminded them distinctly of ravensblood forest.

“how fitting,” renard said, wryly. for her or the saints? for what donovan wanted the saints to be? maybe all three.

they wound their way forward as she tensed, watching them approach with frost-pale eyes. “i have,” renard said, smiling, and came forth without further hesitation for her right shoulder this time, atop the new wounds someone had placed since their last spar in the meadow.

it's pretty but it doesn't smell nice. praimfaya observes with a low laugh. the water smells brackish, salty. like rotting algae; likely the source of coloration. and probably isn't safe to drink. she muses and then concludes with a huffy, pretty and useless. one thing that praimfaya can happily claim she is neither of. she is not pretty, she thinks; can't be with the scars that mar her face and she is certainly far from useless.

she watches his approach, hoping to pirouette out of his way but despite that he does not feign she forgets his strike is serpent fast. he strikes the shoulder nemisis tore up; and though the pain of the collision radiates; teeth splicing her flesh she does not stand idle. she collects herself and retaliates, seizing the advantage of exposure and shifts to snap her teeth at his own shoulder.

renard lacked the same thoughtful consideration that praimfaya was clearly giving to the water. as a metaphor for the saints, useless and pretty wasn’t so wildly offbase, at least. they made a lot of noise and spectacle and failed to do anything with it.

and spectacle could be satisfying. but it needed to have teeth. saint or not, they were better than that. certainly praimfaya was as well.

they couldn’t say they weren’t curious as to her further thoughts, but by now they were more focused on her shoulder, and the blood that splashed over their teeth when they cut down.

she came around in a blur of silver, her jaws snapping along their own shoulder. pain drove a spiking arc up their back, a warning acknowledged and then brushed aside; their head twisted in turn, grasping for a hold of her leg to pull her off balance.

her teeth find purchase in renard's shoulder, the metallic tang of blood drawn whisking across her tongue; a reminder. this is a friendly spar, she does not wish to truly hurt them and she loosens her grip. a mistake she realizes a moment later as she feels their teeth grasp her leg like a vice and in the sand made slick by bloodred water, her weight is shifted beneath her. her footing is lost and she slips with a startled yelp that morphs into a growl. she comes down hard but not before she lashes out with claws at their flank, intending to draw pain if only so her fellow blade lets go of her and she can regain her footing in the crimson water now swirling with whorls of disturbed sand; staining her silverlit pelage a dripping, ruddy crimson.

to show that she is, even in the height of her mistake, having fun she lets out a rumbling laugh as an acknowledged: well played though she is far from giving up.

the blood welling over their shoulder hardly bothered them, spar or not. the saints had plenty in the way of healers so far, and after all. what was a fight without a little blood?

their muzzle came up. praimfaya slipped in the slick sand, and her paw thudded heavily into their side, claws raking through the fur. they swung away, letting her free as they went before the awkward position caused any real damage – blood was blood, but a twisted ankle was more problem than a scrape – and turned, paws sunk deep into the dark water.

renard was not one to offer a laugh as anything other than mocking. maybe a warning. whatever had happened when derg knocked them into the water and held them there.

but the grin widened at praimfaya’s laugh, inching marginally closer to genuine – well, as genuine as they ever got – and an accompanying growl rose in their throat as they snapped to grapple her muzzle.

her laughter tapers off and morphs into a low growl to match renard's own as they grapple with her muzzle. of course it is a move that the commander doesn't appreciate; she associates it with a show of dominance. her mood is still buoyant and her spirits remain lifted from the adrenaline and the spar but she is still determined to win. she jerks her head forcibly to avoid the grasp of their teeth. she feels the sharp points draw across her flesh and lurches forward in her signature move: a shoulder to the ribcage.

renard's teeth raked along her muzzle, accompanied by a satisfying rush of blood. praimfaya's laugh deepened into a growl as they grappled with each other, jaws gripping jaws. it was all much too face to face for their own preference; it was hardly surprising that she ended it so decisively.

her shoulder thudded heavy into their ribcage, the entirety of her weight behind it, and she was built more for this kind of combat than renard could ever be, fast or not. she knocked them off their feet, and they hit the ground hard on their side.

it wouldn't have been difficult to get back to their paws – they'd recovered from worse – but renard knew as well as she did that if this was a real fight, it would have taken time they didn't have. instead they flashed her a sharp smile and a dip of their head in surrender as they climbed back to their paws. "you were holding out on me back in the meadow."

renard is down upon the ground and submits. praimfaya takes the proverbial laurel with a grin, pacing back a few steps to give her companion room to get back to their feet. good spar. she compliments, stretching a bit to determine what feels sore. i had fun. but of course she did. she always enjoyed spars. they were invaluable: for keeping her own skill sharp, for getting to know her packmates in a different way than normal convention ...and more recently, for analyzing for key points of strength and weakness. though she isn't so certain she can trust renard, she considers that when the time came she would offer them a chance to join with her. hela, too.

for now, the wanheda keeps her cards close to her chest, building up the walls of her fortress tall and strong, keeping her eye on the prize: harbinger while also keeping in her mind the reason behind why she was truly here.

a soft churr of laugher leaves praimfaya as renard's voice lulls her back from her thought train, ears cupping forth and tail swaying lazily against her hind legs. i was still recovering from these wounds. praimfaya points out. and even a master warrior has her off days. she could only hope that she wasn't have an off day when it truly mattered.

my last post unless you want to continue!

though they didn't know it, praimfaya's views mirrored their own. there was, of course, something frustrating in a practice fight – it kept you from knowing what your opponent was like when they took it seriously – but that was just an unfortunate limit. it still showed weaknesses, strengths, preferences. and in a real fight, if there was no death at the end as they preferred, you gave far too much of yourself away.

but it was something. the more experience the better. and there was clearly more to her than she had shown in their last spar; they were satisfied to see it. if she was the alternative they considered she might be – it mattered less if that was to take donovan's place or break from him altogether – she did have the strength after all.

they smiled. "hope i can beat you on more than an off-day," they said, with a dip of their head. "thank you for the spar."