Quarrels Clearing is at the far edge of Blossom Forest. This is where fights should be held when initiated by a challenge.
Before you fight or challenge someone, read these rules:
A bed of needles coated the forest floor, turning the shoddy green brown into a into a thing of magnificence. Amongst the dark trees and the fiery orange splendor of the ground, a rangy, mediocre wolf would be hardly worth a second glance. Quirino, however, was no mediocre specimen. Those of the Satanican bloodline are well known for their blood and snow coloring, and the third generation to tread the soil of Blossom is no different. His fur is a resplendent crimson, and on his chest he bears a single white rosette. He is the true heir to the bloodline, a true prince of ice and massacre. Quirino has yet to reach his third winter, but the troubles of fighting many foes have told on his young mind, bringing about some semblance of maturity far before it was due. Gone are the foolish egoism and empty boasts of teenhood they had vanished with his family. Solitude and loneliness had tempered his tongue he was of a less fickle disposition than before, and stirred his afore mention egoism into a slightly darker thing which was a burning desire to become victorious in all situations. He had never aspired to be king, but his fierce sense of territorial nature had prevented anything else from taking place. Besides, the hellion would never serve under anyone who he could conquer. Despite any dregs of optimism that the lad tried to keep close to his heart, he had reached a point at which he assumed his family was dead, or at least lost to the point were he would never see them again. Qui had always maintained that he had detested his sister, but now that the vindictive bi-color was gone, he found himself idly devising taunts for a verbal spar that would never take place. His mother was more of a tug on his heart than his sister. Although he had always been an independent creature, and had no need for caresses and reassurances, he'd always respected the Alpha of Andere Seite. She had trained him to fight since he was a fluffy furred scrap, and had always lavished praises when he succeeded. His uncle was likewise missed, but he did not grieve greatly for the somber creature. Despite all of the close family ties, he mourned for no wolf as much as he mourned for Saladin, his maternal grandfather, the leader of the Satanicans. Saladin had been an awe-inspiring wolf, strong in his old age, with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes and a speed to his limbs that could overpower even Seline in a battle. Saladin had lead the clan out of their homeland after the great fire and saw them settle into their new home amongst the pines, but had since then vanished of the face of the earth. Quirino was alone. It was a strange revelation, and a slightly alarming one at that. The prince had never been good at making friends, and now that he didn't have his family, he was somewhat lost... not that anyone would ever be able to tell though. Qui maintained his facade perfectly, as was expected of royalty. Heaven and hell forbid that the opal-eyed draco would appear weak in front of any mundane. He would never allow himself to be so dishonored, even at the cost of his mental well-being. Quirino would rather fall into the pits of insanity that admit (even to himself) that wolves, being social animals, needed comrades in order to survive. It was a lonely lifestyle, but, as he was once told, it is the destiny of the superior to become lonely. The young lord firmly believed in his superiority, as well as its power to get him though day to day existence. He lived to surpass. Perhaps that is why the report of a howl ringing out across the still forest brought Quirino to an instant halt. His cupped tulips swivelled, taking in the sound of the offender's call. It was a brash, bold note, tinged with aggression, pride and indolence; he recognized it immediately, and that recognition made his blood boil in ecstasy. There was no mistaking the call to a challenge. His eyes brightened, and instantly his stance changed from that of a solitary ghost to that of an avenging demon. His tail stiffened and rose to curl, scorpion-like, over his back. Qui's hackles were raised slightly as he titled his head back, and, without further ado, responded to the challenge with a cry of his own. While his opponent's ululation had held a sound of a statement, the Satanican's voice was suffused with nothing but battle lust. It was a heady sound, wild as the canine himself. The loud vocalization tapered off softly, ending a savage, growling croon of defiance as his breath finally gave out. He would not run to the battle like a fool, since he did not want to credit his opponent with the knowledge that he had raced to the area. Even though Quirino had never previously met the animal, he had firmly decided that this opponent was nothing but a little snot with grandiose ideas about his own might. A little snot didn't deserve anything more than a glance from someone with a superior bloodline. Sadly, the rules of Blossom Forest's ruling system didn't allow for discrimination. Equal rights were a drag if the Satanican ever conquered the universe, he'd be sure to do away with that kind of stupid ideology immediately. Allowing each wolf to entertain even the merest smidgen of idea of their own worth was just asking for a rebellion. However (and sadly) he did not rule the world. Because of that regrettable fact, he mobilized his strongly built frame, heading in the direction of the Quarrels Clearing. The space in which feuds were settled was a reasonable distance away from the land he had come to consider as his own, so by the time their heady fumes reached his soot hued nostrils he had since forsaken his arrogant strut in favor of a easy trot. Most wolves felt some rush at the odor, and Qui was no different than the majority. The blood, the fear, the deaths, the victories, the downcast, humiliated retreats... He could smell individual fights, which were exhilarating in themselves, but it was the overall stench of war that caused the hairs of his blood-hued scruff to bristle in readiness. Although the crimson-dyed sands of the Quarrels Clearing were quite some distance away, the reality of what he was going to do sent shivers of feral anticipation down the boy's spine. He felt the pure, carnal readiness, and allowed it to consume him totally. Adrenaline tore through his system like a wild, unrestrained beast, pushing his sensitivity to everyday things up more than it ever would be when he wasn't under its all-consuming influence. Colors seemed vivid to his eyes, smells seemed vibrant, sharp and alive. The cool grass under his paws seemed different than usual. He was high on mere oxygen, drunk on the scent of blood that the upcoming clearing had to offer. His heart beat in a frenzied pace, pushing oxygenated blood through his veins with speed. The princeling's head was held high as his body parted the last of the foliage, and his eyes glittered with an intensity akin to madness. Quirino had fought his first challenger off as a young teen, before he was psychologically ready to deal with the pain, and had subsequently begun to rely on adrenaline as a sort of coping measure. It had rapidly become an addiction, one that he would like as not be unable to shed for a good while. He was naturally a talented fighter, but he suspected his foe's experience surpassed his own. No matter the situation, the stuck up red wasn't going to let it get him down. With his flag held high, Qui wove deftly though the withered trees, studying his opponent all the while. Basshunter was a large male, ebony in coloring, with a strange winglike pattern on his back. In short, he looked like a pansy to the judgmental delinquent. The voice that assaulted Qui's ears sounded pompous and idiotic, but bias likely played into that assumption. In response to his opponent's words, Quirino cocked his head to the side and let his own lyrics tickle the mid morning air. His vocals held a mocking tone as he replied. Last I checked it was you who did the challenging, mundane, but let's not get bogged down with technicalities. If you have any friends, tell them that Quirino was the one who whooped your ass. Words became redundant to him as he commenced the circling of his adversary. It was time to fight. ooc: I'm alive~ word count: 1467 {you're just a puppet} |