Posted by maverick on August 21, 2008, 10:18 pm, in reply to "the thunder of guns; MAVERICK (I) " Now the cards are everywhere face in dust; Maverick is almost baffled at the weather conditions. It’s the second time he’s fought without being in a downpour, and a less innovative horse might now know how to deal with the missing challenge of precipitation and enough mud (or hail) to wrestle in. But the dun, as ever, is up for anything…even that lightning bolt streaking toward him like he’s got a date at 2 o’clock, coming complete with his own thunder-clap. Baraqel is the impetuous, cocky son it’s a good thing Zeus never had, but Maverick likes him. Because this river is wild Fire(I)bronze
131.230.149.113
Not that that means anything here.
The stallion is ready; eager, even, shifting as he stands and watches Baraqel approach, and his hair is already prickling with the nearing electricity. Still, when he’s close enough to see the whites of the Thunderbolt Kid’s eyes, he’s not totally expecting to see an electrical marvel. Like any horse would, he shies—but Maverick shies like an athlete and a Quarter Horse, which is to say quickly. His whole body jumps right and forward simultaneously, reacting like a startled cat.
Because he moved forward, Baraqel’s blow lands higher on his leg, and because he jumped further right than anticipated, the hit is almost glancing. Still, in less than a second Maverick finds himself with a scraped, aching foreleg, a rabbit-paced heartbeat, and a sizzling smell on the air. Immediately he forces himself into motion, and as he feels a sudden burst of heat—though he’s stood by Hypatia enough to know it won’t hurt him—he leaps forward and left, as if to circle around to Baraqel.
That’s when the second attack comes, and even as Maverick takes the hit (and feels a simultaneous outcry as he lands on his left foreleg) he knows that he’s lucky. His movement—forward and left—put him on the outward edge of the Thunderbolt Kid’s kick. Still, he took it on the lower part of his left shoulder, and Maverick grunted (because that’s how real men acknowledge pain). While the younger stallion circled around to face him again, the dun turns toward his target at a slower speed, thinking of attacks that wouldn’t require much of his foreleg.
Since they’re now facing each other, Maverick decides to keep it simple and lunges forward with something a little short of classic QH quickness, but he still manages to close the distance between them effectively. A stride away, Maverick is still gathering speed, and he shows no sign of swerving; it looks like a potentially lethal game of chicken is eminent.
Just before impact, though, Maverick swerves sideways just enough to put his right shoulder at the point of Baraqel’s left, and he throws his whole (considerable) weight into the shove, knowing he’s stockier and probably heavier than the other stallion. At the same time, using his Bronze privilege, Maverick’s bared teeth reach for anything that presents itself, knowing it wouldn’t be too tough to scrape some skin from that newly-exposed summer coat. He knows Baraqel won’t go down; the footing isn’t shady enough for that. But chances are he’ll be thrown off-balance, probably shoved sideways, and that’s all Maverick needs.
Instead of veering outward, he continues shoving into Baraqel, knowing the stallion will instinctively shift to let him through. The dun still has enough momentum to get him clear of the livewire stallion, and as soon as he pushes past him, he crowhops and kicks, both hind legs uncoiling into kinetic energy and power. Depending on how, exactly, Baraqel shifted direction, the blow would either land squarely on both of the stallion’s hind legs (pushing the hock joints inward, like they weren’t supposed to go) or angled to one leg, again forcing it in an unnatural position. Baraqel is a leggy stallion, and while legs for days might be attractive, they also present a lot of target, and Maverick planned on taking advantage.
It is then—as he lands from the crow-hop—that he feels it; a sudden tightness and then a snap, and instead of the perfect landing that the footing should have given him he stumbles, almost going down completely as the leg refuses to hold him.
When he does gain his feet, he stands with his weight off the left foreleg, and if Maverick could carry off expressions like a person his would be one of stunned disbelief. He doesn’t feel much; the blood and adrenaline racing through his system combined with the supernatural warmth of his Element act more numbing than IcyHot. But when tries a tentative step forward, jagged pain shoots up his leg, and Maverick grits his teeth in the closest to a snarl he’ll probably ever come.
He doesn’t know it yet, but the injury to one of his flexor tendons is a season-ender…and Maverick might have just finished his last fight.
Sometimes what doesn’t kill you incapacitates you for life.
God speed you boy
This river is wild
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