Common
Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
Posted on April 7, 2020 at 11:44:48 AM by YAZHEEN
She is a tornado of speckled flesh and dark hair, twisting and snapping almost soundlessly. The energy that crackles from her body is dark and angry, and she almost feels better to be throwing her body around.
Though petite and seemingly lovely to some, she was not a woman raised to be cowed. In a land where women screamed cries of war to the heavens and where herds only gathered in a clash of twisted meat and bones, Yazheen is not afraid to fight or feel pain. Beneath the gentle fuzz of her hair are the puckered scars of a lifetime of battle, and somewhere in the back of her mind is the fresh memory of a war lost.
Yazheen does not stop moving, for she is determined and she is enraged. Hearing nothing but the howl of her heartbeat, the voice of the male falls on deaf ears as she continues to kick and bite, a relentless locomotive of violence, she cares little when his teeth collide with her rump. A bruise and perhaps a great tuft of hair would fall to the ground, but she knows she will forget the discomfort once her teeth pinch flesh and her heels find skin.
Beneath her, the snow is churned, muddy and slick, stirred by the legs of the two horses and flicking up from their toes to paint them in a smattering of snow and dirt. To Yazheen, this is unimportant- beauty was not a thing of value to her people, and the great Sun God cared little if his warrior women were lovely creatures. He cared only for their sacrifices of blood and the songs of their wars- and Yazheen was a devout follower, continuing in her dance of battle.
Though petite and seemingly lovely to some, she was not a woman raised to be cowed. In a land where women screamed cries of war to the heavens and where herds only gathered in a clash of twisted meat and bones, Yazheen is not afraid to fight or feel pain. Beneath the gentle fuzz of her hair are the puckered scars of a lifetime of battle, and somewhere in the back of her mind is the fresh memory of a war lost.
Yazheen does not stop moving, for she is determined and she is enraged. Hearing nothing but the howl of her heartbeat, the voice of the male falls on deaf ears as she continues to kick and bite, a relentless locomotive of violence, she cares little when his teeth collide with her rump. A bruise and perhaps a great tuft of hair would fall to the ground, but she knows she will forget the discomfort once her teeth pinch flesh and her heels find skin.
Beneath her, the snow is churned, muddy and slick, stirred by the legs of the two horses and flicking up from their toes to paint them in a smattering of snow and dirt. To Yazheen, this is unimportant- beauty was not a thing of value to her people, and the great Sun God cared little if his warrior women were lovely creatures. He cared only for their sacrifices of blood and the songs of their wars- and Yazheen was a devout follower, continuing in her dance of battle.
YAZHEEN
image & html by russell
ooc: she'll probably go along soon and be a royal pain in the buttsky for cullen rofl
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