Duskfire Glacier bran

@Astier

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— it is the duty of the warbringer to test, to push, to teach those beneath his arch. blackfell had no say in who faust allowed within the borders of darukaal—that was not his duty. but this?
crimson eyes flutter upon the wraith who followed obediently. that alone earned him a measure of acknowledgement. appraising him once, ordering him to stop with the raise of a forepaw.
he had led him to a slope, terrain that would strain his muscles alone just to climb—and he would fight blackfell here. or, spar, was the safer term. no emotion passes over the face of the warbringer as he drops the raised paw.
begin.

rolled a 12 as first attempt! still kinda new to this, hope this is ok! <3

The slope was no place for mercy. Treacherous, uneven; it threatened to betray the footing of the careless. Perhaps that was the point. Astier did not speak. He did not ask why the Warbringer sought this test; he already knew. Not for dominance, but for understanding. Blackfell wished to see if Faust’s trust had been well-placed… if the Wraith was more than a shadow trailing after purpose. So be it.
At the signal, begin, Astier moved.
Not with brute speed, but silence, calculation. He surged to the right, then pivoted sharply left, ice-chipped rock scattering beneath his paws. He aimed low, striking first with a sweep of his shoulder to unbalance the larger wolf’s legs, testing foundation before going for force. Not a word passed his lips. The climb meant nothing if he could not hold his ground.

rolled 15⁺² = 17

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— a smart move.
too bad that blackfell is a step ahead of him, if not several.
pivoting in the opposite direction of each step astier makes, and sidestepping with ease upon the toppling, icy slope. northern bred paws and a climate tested frame proving adept at chartering the treacherous claim of his cousin.
blackfell turns in a shroud of blurring onyx and trails after where astier skids, launching with a mocking blow of teeth against the lower spine; breath ghosting where teeth would have struck. following through with an attempt to grapple, shouldering himself against the man's backside.

rolled a 6 for attack & 3 for defense!

The strike lands like thunder. 
Pain lances white-hot along his spine where Blackfell’s teeth graze close, mercifully shy of the bone, but precise enough to remind him who held the upper hand. The shoulder that follows shoves him forward, momentum slipping traitorously beneath his paws. Ice cracks beneath him, sharp and treacherous, and for a heartbeat he falters.
But he does not fall.
Astier regains his footing with the strained grace of a cliff-hung ghost, breath short in his chest, eyes narrowed with cold light. No curse escapes him. No growl of frustration. Only the shallow pull of breath and the twist of his body as he counters, not with the flourish of a victor, but with the force of refusal.
He spins low, aiming a sweep toward Blackfell’s foreleg. It is not elegant, nor particularly likely to land. His form is bruised by the imbalance, his reach short and breath catching; but he still strikes.
Because even shadows push back. And even when overpowered, the Wraith of the Spires never retreats without leaving a mark.

D: 5 / A: 9⁺²= 11

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— the wraith falters, skidding forward beneath the cataclysmic crushing of the warbringer's blow. blackfell does not show any signs of relenting, barreling with the brunt of his strength upon the man, pushing him down and back.
leaving him open to the teeth that lance upon his foreleg. and he can only laugh in response. the stormfang is vicious, eager to prove himself and that bubbles some measure of respect beneath the onyx hide of the man.
but he will not let up. he will push, test, drive astier to his limit to see what lay beneath the cool, calmness he carried. snapping forwards with a vicious snout, seeking to clamp teeth upon his cheek and tug wildly—the intent not to break skin but to tear clumps of fur.
a demands that his foreleg be let loose as they both stumble on.

atk: 10 / def: 20

The Wraith does not yield. Blackfell’s jaws snap forward, aiming to punish, to test, to rake teeth along the pale cheek of the frost-born. But Astier moves with frigid grace, tilting just out of reach. Teeth meet air, not flesh, nor fur.
His own strike, however, does not miss; jaws clamp down on his foreleg, not to tear, but to seize, to anchor. Then, with the momentum of snow-quiet calculation, the Wraith pivots. A sharp twist of weight, a drag of muscle against the slope, and he seeks to topple Blackfell’s stance, to make the mountain move, if only for a breath.

D: 8 / A: 16⁺²= 18

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— astier's hold on his leg thwarts him. blackfell stumbles onwards, barely clinging to his balance. teetering upon the edge of falling, but reeling himself, searching for stalwart where it fleeted quickly.
intense in the face of the pressure that the wraith puts upon him. but he recovers, steeling himself, anchoring hindlegs and paws deep into the snow and ice. grunting with the momentum he garners, muscles rippling along a massive hide.
with a loud snarl, pushing up. butting his head into the chest of the man who had won the upperhand, and looking to anchor teeth into the under of his neck and chest. if he strikes true, he will thrash his head violently, looking to unseat the man and throw him into the ice he resembles so closely.

def: 14 / atk: 2

The tide shifts beneath him as Blackfell rallies, driving forward with brute power borne of recovered footing and the fury that simmers beneath his scarred form.
Astier sees it, but cannot stop it. Teeth bite into the pale expanse beneath his jaw, where the chill clings to bone. A snarl twists the air between them, then momentum breaks through his defenses. His limbs buckle under the weight, head snapping back from the violent thrashing as snow scatters from the impact. Ice cracks beneath his frame.
Still; he does not cry out. Even as his body is hurled back into the very glacier that birthed him, the Wraith remains silent. But in his silence, there is no surrender. Only breath, collected and steady. Watching through the sting, calculating his next move… even if it is not yet. The retaliation comes eventually, a lunge forward, but it's weak, faltering.

D: 6 / seems like a good spot to end here, but feel free to attack again if you wanna continue!

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— the swipe does not register. it falters, falling short; blackfell has the opening now to bring an end to this spar. astier has fought well, holding his own against the warbringer; he would find no shortness in the man any further.
he erupts from where he remained, teeth flashing and seeking to fake a blow to the throat where astier is left open, clacking jaws together as spittle flies.

we can end here! would love another, I need one more for the merc trade <3

Astier does not flinch. The jaws miss by design, but he holds his ground as if they hadn't. His ears flick back from the sound, sharp and final, but he does not yield nor step away. Instead, he meets Blackfell's feint with the same cold stillness he wore at the start. No snap in return, no final lunge. Only the quiet rise of his chest and the slight narrowing of his gaze, pale eyes steady beneath the weight of the moment.
He dips his head; not in defeat, but in acknowledgment. The Wraith does not speak. He only turns from the clash with a low breath and the lingering pulse of adrenaline still thrumming beneath his ribs, satisfied enough to leave this round behind; but not forgotten.