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Description
RP collaboration between myself and JackalsGrin

Winter, Year 767 of the New Age
The outer Glenwood, near The Needle
Featuring Deirdre and Madigan

Deirdre

It was certain that at this point the news of the King’s Games had touched every ear in the Glenwood, even those on the edge. Deirdre had heard. She was a doe that saw herself as formidable and powerful as any stag in the forest, and lived for opportunities to prove just how capable she really was. If her balls were more than metaphorical she would have been in the thick of things, clashing antlers, and demonstrating her prowess for all to see. Being regulated to stand far a field, and hope to even catch a small glimpse of the action galled a her.

Deirdre, stormy of temper most of the time, was positively tempestuous. The pitch doe stalked through the icy underbrush, irritation radiating the air around her, and steam rolling off her back. She was spoiling for a fight and she knew just the one for it.

The doe inhaled deeply, following a heady and now very familiar scent as she rumbled through the thin, crooked, wind beaten trees. The child she carried, picking up on her mood, pummeled her insides with abandon. She never could wrap her head around his presence there. She had decided with a stubborn certainty that it was a male, as the very idea of birthing another condemned black doe filled her with a special dread.

She had avoided the sire since making the unhappy discovery, but she was seeking him now.

When she had coupled with the fearsome stag, she hadn’t considered this particular outcome. She’d been starved for the touch of another, and he opened up doors to feelings that had she long locked away, and they refused to be pushed back into exile. Deirdre had never perceived herself as particularly feminine, but was now living what many considered to be the pinnacle of a doe’s purpose. This idea too fueled her ill temper.

The dark doe had yet to truly define Maddy’s role in her life, but at the moment it was easier to be angry than to try to work it out.

“Madigan!”

Madigan

Mad never felt himself in the winter. Pure white, poorly fed, and bored was just not him. He was a dark coat stag year round on the inside. He deserved to be gorged on green grass and constantly entertained by his own imaginings, though he would settle for his brother’s occasional crop of quite-good grass shared amongst The Family and the occasion funeral or new face to keep him moving around. Like many he had big eyes but would content himself (at least temporarily) or the piece of the pie he was given.

He was leaning one wooly white shoulder against the rough bark of a tree, head low and half dreaming of things far too inappropriate to pass on. Sufficient to say the innocent parts of it had been perversion but that had turned to grim violence in a gradual, graphic mental exhibition. It was something only a doe’s voice could pull him back to reality from. Even if that doe was Deirdre, whose tone was anything but dulcet and lyrical.

When he heard his name, Mad’s head perked up immediately. He thought for a minute that it was his mother, and tried to figure out where she was approaching from so that he could figure out the best way to turn. Madigan though? Almost no one called him Madigan. Certain members of his family maybe, but even then he was most often called ‘Avad’ if he was being hollered to/at.

With a huff Mad spotted the trundling approach of the large black doe. He combined a smile with a cock of the head and snorted softly. His own name was easily the most syllables he had ever heard her string together at once.

“Ah, The Ram. What's it doin' runnin' 'round ahht 'ere?”

Deirdre

Maddy may have to spend the winter in undignified white, but Deirdre, in addition to being wrong skinned all year grew a magnificently full winter coat. Long guard hairs lined her jaw and chest, and extended her feather up past her knee. The effect was a rather yakish.

The tufted end of Deirdre's tail twitched as she approached, vitriol hung thick in the in the air frightening the winter starlings. While the fire of her indignation burned hot it was not directed specifically at him. She returned his snort with one of her own. Drawing closer, brazen in her anger and whatever familiarity they had previously established.

She stood for a moment nose to nose, her neck arched. "I want to talk," she muttered behind her gritted teeth. It was an unusual request, especially for her. There were a great many things she felt like saying, and she stewed for a long moment. She knocked her horn briefly against his and stepped up, bumping him with with her chest. She preferred conversation with more jostling and not so many words.

"Are you going to the games?" She all but growled the question. Her tail lashed and she stamped a hoof. This was the easier subject, and her opinion on the matter of her exclusion was readily apparent.

"I want to help," She grumbled with an attempted a bite at his withers, intentionally trying to provoke him.

Madigan

Maddy could have sworn she said she wanted to talk, which would have seemed strange even if it hadn’t also seemed to be a lie. He wasn’t sure if Deirdre had the same problem with communication that his brother did, but when she said ‘talk to’ she clearly meant ‘shove’ since even while words were issuing forth there was a lot more pushing than conversation actually going on.

Then the question of the games came up, and Maddy also found himself a little more inclined to exchange blows than witty repartee. He demanded, at a volume that only became warranted as their racks mutually rattled off one another, “'ave ya been talkin' tuh me brovver? I told 'im, I'm only garn so’s I can beat on a few Glenwoods. It's nah--”

She bit him, and that sort of overshadowed what she had said about wanting to help. In a show of his less than stellar temper, Mad lowered his head a bit and swung his heavy head against her looking to giver that dark hairy body of hers a heavy shove.

“Ya want a beatin’, Ram?” he demanded just prior to a rear, one which likely ended in a loud clattering of twisted antler on blade-like horn, “You're 'eaded right for one.”

Deirdre

Something strange happened to Deirdre's face at that moment, a small quirk of the mouth, impish half smile. During their short acquaintance Maddy had pushed all of her buttons, some she favored more than others. It was good to poke a bit at his controls, and she had gotten the response she desired.

His hammer head met its mark blowing a little wind out of her. There was momentary flash of concern on her face as she righted herself, but a flurry of angry fetal movement told her it was alright. Deirdre's jaw set, and her eyes blazed. She rose to meet him, the clamor of clashing antlers rang in her skull.

"You are welcome to try." It was only after the words escaped her mouth that Deirdre concluded that this could be a miscalculation. She pinned her ears flat against her skull. Her pride kept her to task, and at the moment she felt more at home in her own skin than she had since she first knew she was in foal.

If possible she tried to hook one of The Dain's spined arcs in an effort to exert some control on his head. She felt an unusual pulling sensation at the base of her horn, she heard a pop, it wriggled. She had never shed this early in the season, a bit of panic touched her. She attempted a strategic retreat, but if her opponent made made any sudden movements he may find the horn still caught up in his rack, and Deirdre no longer attached to it.

Madigan

Maddy tried to stay conscious of Deirdre’s horn when they scrapped. As ferociously as she could kick she had an unsettling amount of reach on him when it came to her horn. Long, solid sword that it was, his strategy for combating it (and racks like it) had been to tangle them up for a long time. Since he’d caught a young buck’s impressively sharp spear across the face, in fact, which had left him with the reminder-lines he still could not grow hair in today. The stag had been trying to wrap himself into The Ram’s curly-cues as well. He wanted to get a grip and try to brute force her head down to the ground, but suddenly there was very little resistance on her end. A loud clattering caught amidst his black branches, and Maddy instinctively tossed his head around.

A couple loud snorts, a stomp and a fling of the head later The Ram’s headset went sailing through the air. Maddy paused, rapt in the moment as he watched Deirdre’s offensive defensive hit the frozen ground and roll over a time or two.

He started a laugh -- a single blast of pre-emptively declared victory -- that turned into a thud. Dierdre, regardless of her head’s nakedness, had still seen fit to nail him in the side with it. The overconfident stag had to consider that perhaps pre-celebration was a bad habit he should work on as he staggered and caught his breath. Then, once his feet were found, he ignored the ache in his ribs and turned on the dark doe once more.

He knew now he had to watch her kicks, and maybe her bite. She would be all kicks if she was smart, but probably would also employ teeth because she was a savage animal in all the best ways. Madigan had to dance a little more than he was used to by sheer virtue of having nothing to lock in with. Avoid the backside, also, was not a maneuver he was strictly familiar with when engaging a doe.

Deirdre

Maddy had managed to draw first blood, although likely not in the way he expected. Sanguine liquid oozed from her horn bud. The the red weal looked like an angry third eye. It streaked his milky hide as her head smashed into his flank. It was intensely satisfying to watch him stagger backwards, but she had better sense to declare victory.

When one blow landed she prepared for the next. She was quite aware of her disadvantage. The doe had to avoid his rack, guard the belly, and she had been disarmed. As Maddy was catching his breath she performed a quick twist on the forehand, and threw out kick. Whether it connected or not she'd bounce forward as her back feet once again met the ground. She gave her tail a saucy flick, a taunt.

She lunged toward her dropped antler in hope that she might accomplish two things. First, get Maddy to chase her so he was better positioned for another double barrel, and to re-weaponize her horn, grasping one of the ram hooks in her teeth.

Madigan

It was a combination of moves that yanked Madigan from the shallow end of a lost temper right back onto dry land. Being blood-smeared had almost bolstered him, and he had gone charging after her at nearly full tilt. The presence of mind to fight a buck was the only reason he’d manage to narrowly avoid her big back feet flying up at him -- his whole body flung to the side in a sudden bolt of cognisance. When she turned on him, rack in her teeth, however Common-Sense (last minute saviour that it often was) pulled him up by the ear and stopped him short.

“‘Old on,” he insisted with his ears laid flat, “‘Old on…”

The gears began to wind and tick again, now that the body had stopped for a second. There was a chance that this was a foreplay thing again...which would be alright. The Ram had also mentioned the games. Thinking about it, Maddy could reason that the Glenmorian King’s Games probably got a fella like The Ram even more moody than they made Dolly. Dalaigh didn’t want his brother going too deep into Glenmore for fear that he wouldn’t come out, however, whereas The Ram…

“Is ‘his aw 'cause ya can't enter the games?” he said, but proceeded without waiting for an answer, “I can see it...yeah. Tell ya wot! We'll row it out for ya. Get sum of that ahht...but we'll make a wager. Awite?”

Deirdre

Deirdre kept her head level with her shoulders, she was preparing to lunge again when the pale stag started yapping. She circled him slowly, eyes fixed, looking for any sign of movement. This could still be a ruse. She let him have his moment of respite.

He brought up the games and she suddenly remembered why she was supposed to be angry. The games weren't even her most distressing source of bile, but it made for a convenient excuse. Her tail wrung impatiently. Deirdre dropped her weapon at her feet and set a foot on it so it could not easily be wrested a way.

"That and..." She began to reply, but Maddy continued over the top of her. She let him. She pricked an interested ear at the mention of a wager. She did so enjoy a contest.

"What kind of wager?"

Word count:

Deirdre: 1158
Madigan: 1097

Description
RP collaboration between myself and JackalsGrin

Winter, Year 767 of the New Age
The outer Glenwood, near The Needle
Featuring Deirdre and Madigan

Deirdre

It was certain that at this point the news of the King’s Games had touched every ear in the Glenwood, even those on the edge. Deirdre had heard. She was a doe that saw herself as formidable and powerful as any stag in the forest, and lived for opportunities to prove just how capable she really was. If her balls were more than metaphorical she would have been in the thick of things, clashing antlers, and demonstrating her prowess for all to see. Being regulated to stand far a field, and hope to even catch a small glimpse of the action galled a her.

Deirdre, stormy of temper most of the time, was positively tempestuous. The pitch doe stalked through the icy underbrush, irritation radiating the air around her, and steam rolling off her back. She was spoiling for a fight and she knew just the one for it.

The doe inhaled deeply, following a heady and now very familiar scent as she rumbled through the thin, crooked, wind beaten trees. The child she carried, picking up on her mood, pummeled her insides with abandon. She never could wrap her head around his presence there. She had decided with a stubborn certainty that it was a male, as the very idea of birthing another condemned black doe filled her with a special dread.

She had avoided the sire since making the unhappy discovery, but she was seeking him now.

When she had coupled with the fearsome stag, she hadn’t considered this particular outcome. She’d been starved for the touch of another, and he opened up doors to feelings that had she long locked away, and they refused to be pushed back into exile. Deirdre had never perceived herself as particularly feminine, but was now living what many considered to be the pinnacle of a doe’s purpose. This idea too fueled her ill temper.

The dark doe had yet to truly define Maddy’s role in her life, but at the moment it was easier to be angry than to try to work it out.

“Madigan!”

Madigan

Mad never felt himself in the winter. Pure white, poorly fed, and bored was just not him. He was a dark coat stag year round on the inside. He deserved to be gorged on green grass and constantly entertained by his own imaginings, though he would settle for his brother’s occasional crop of quite-good grass shared amongst The Family and the occasion funeral or new face to keep him moving around. Like many he had big eyes but would content himself (at least temporarily) or the piece of the pie he was given.

He was leaning one wooly white shoulder against the rough bark of a tree, head low and half dreaming of things far too inappropriate to pass on. Sufficient to say the innocent parts of it had been perversion but that had turned to grim violence in a gradual, graphic mental exhibition. It was something only a doe’s voice could pull him back to reality from. Even if that doe was Deirdre, whose tone was anything but dulcet and lyrical.

When he heard his name, Mad’s head perked up immediately. He thought for a minute that it was his mother, and tried to figure out where she was approaching from so that he could figure out the best way to turn. Madigan though? Almost no one called him Madigan. Certain members of his family maybe, but even then he was most often called ‘Avad’ if he was being hollered to/at.

With a huff Mad spotted the trundling approach of the large black doe. He combined a smile with a cock of the head and snorted softly. His own name was easily the most syllables he had ever heard her string together at once.

“Ah, The Ram. What's it doin' runnin' 'round ahht 'ere?”

Deirdre

Maddy may have to spend the winter in undignified white, but Deirdre, in addition to being wrong skinned all year grew a magnificently full winter coat. Long guard hairs lined her jaw and chest, and extended her feather up past her knee. The effect was a rather yakish.

The tufted end of Deirdre's tail twitched as she approached, vitriol hung thick in the in the air frightening the winter starlings. While the fire of her indignation burned hot it was not directed specifically at him. She returned his snort with one of her own. Drawing closer, brazen in her anger and whatever familiarity they had previously established.

She stood for a moment nose to nose, her neck arched. "I want to talk," she muttered behind her gritted teeth. It was an unusual request, especially for her. There were a great many things she felt like saying, and she stewed for a long moment. She knocked her horn briefly against his and stepped up, bumping him with with her chest. She preferred conversation with more jostling and not so many words.

"Are you going to the games?" She all but growled the question. Her tail lashed and she stamped a hoof. This was the easier subject, and her opinion on the matter of her exclusion was readily apparent.

"I want to help," She grumbled with an attempted a bite at his withers, intentionally trying to provoke him.

Madigan

Maddy could have sworn she said she wanted to talk, which would have seemed strange even if it hadn’t also seemed to be a lie. He wasn’t sure if Deirdre had the same problem with communication that his brother did, but when she said ‘talk to’ she clearly meant ‘shove’ since even while words were issuing forth there was a lot more pushing than conversation actually going on.

Then the question of the games came up, and Maddy also found himself a little more inclined to exchange blows than witty repartee. He demanded, at a volume that only became warranted as their racks mutually rattled off one another, “'ave ya been talkin' tuh me brovver? I told 'im, I'm only garn so’s I can beat on a few Glenwoods. It's nah--”

She bit him, and that sort of overshadowed what she had said about wanting to help. In a show of his less than stellar temper, Mad lowered his head a bit and swung his heavy head against her looking to giver that dark hairy body of hers a heavy shove.

“Ya want a beatin’, Ram?” he demanded just prior to a rear, one which likely ended in a loud clattering of twisted antler on blade-like horn, “You're 'eaded right for one.”

Deirdre

Something strange happened to Deirdre's face at that moment, a small quirk of the mouth, impish half smile. During their short acquaintance Maddy had pushed all of her buttons, some she favored more than others. It was good to poke a bit at his controls, and she had gotten the response she desired.

His hammer head met its mark blowing a little wind out of her. There was momentary flash of concern on her face as she righted herself, but a flurry of angry fetal movement told her it was alright. Deirdre's jaw set, and her eyes blazed. She rose to meet him, the clamor of clashing antlers rang in her skull.

"You are welcome to try." It was only after the words escaped her mouth that Deirdre concluded that this could be a miscalculation. She pinned her ears flat against her skull. Her pride kept her to task, and at the moment she felt more at home in her own skin than she had since she first knew she was in foal.

If possible she tried to hook one of The Dain's spined arcs in an effort to exert some control on his head. She felt an unusual pulling sensation at the base of her horn, she heard a pop, it wriggled. She had never shed this early in the season, a bit of panic touched her. She attempted a strategic retreat, but if her opponent made made any sudden movements he may find the horn still caught up in his rack, and Deirdre no longer attached to it.

Madigan

Maddy tried to stay conscious of Deirdre’s horn when they scrapped. As ferociously as she could kick she had an unsettling amount of reach on him when it came to her horn. Long, solid sword that it was, his strategy for combating it (and racks like it) had been to tangle them up for a long time. Since he’d caught a young buck’s impressively sharp spear across the face, in fact, which had left him with the reminder-lines he still could not grow hair in today. The stag had been trying to wrap himself into The Ram’s curly-cues as well. He wanted to get a grip and try to brute force her head down to the ground, but suddenly there was very little resistance on her end. A loud clattering caught amidst his black branches, and Maddy instinctively tossed his head around.

A couple loud snorts, a stomp and a fling of the head later The Ram’s headset went sailing through the air. Maddy paused, rapt in the moment as he watched Deirdre’s offensive defensive hit the frozen ground and roll over a time or two.

He started a laugh -- a single blast of pre-emptively declared victory -- that turned into a thud. Dierdre, regardless of her head’s nakedness, had still seen fit to nail him in the side with it. The overconfident stag had to consider that perhaps pre-celebration was a bad habit he should work on as he staggered and caught his breath. Then, once his feet were found, he ignored the ache in his ribs and turned on the dark doe once more.

He knew now he had to watch her kicks, and maybe her bite. She would be all kicks if she was smart, but probably would also employ teeth because she was a savage animal in all the best ways. Madigan had to dance a little more than he was used to by sheer virtue of having nothing to lock in with. Avoid the backside, also, was not a maneuver he was strictly familiar with when engaging a doe.

Deirdre

Maddy had managed to draw first blood, although likely not in the way he expected. Sanguine liquid oozed from her horn bud. The the red weal looked like an angry third eye. It streaked his milky hide as her head smashed into his flank. It was intensely satisfying to watch him stagger backwards, but she had better sense to declare victory.

When one blow landed she prepared for the next. She was quite aware of her disadvantage. The doe had to avoid his rack, guard the belly, and she had been disarmed. As Maddy was catching his breath she performed a quick twist on the forehand, and threw out kick. Whether it connected or not she'd bounce forward as her back feet once again met the ground. She gave her tail a saucy flick, a taunt.

She lunged toward her dropped antler in hope that she might accomplish two things. First, get Maddy to chase her so he was better positioned for another double barrel, and to re-weaponize her horn, grasping one of the ram hooks in her teeth.

Madigan

It was a combination of moves that yanked Madigan from the shallow end of a lost temper right back onto dry land. Being blood-smeared had almost bolstered him, and he had gone charging after her at nearly full tilt. The presence of mind to fight a buck was the only reason he’d manage to narrowly avoid her big back feet flying up at him -- his whole body flung to the side in a sudden bolt of cognisance. When she turned on him, rack in her teeth, however Common-Sense (last minute saviour that it often was) pulled him up by the ear and stopped him short.

“‘Old on,” he insisted with his ears laid flat, “‘Old on…”

The gears began to wind and tick again, now that the body had stopped for a second. There was a chance that this was a foreplay thing again...which would be alright. The Ram had also mentioned the games. Thinking about it, Maddy could reason that the Glenmorian King’s Games probably got a fella like The Ram even more moody than they made Dolly. Dalaigh didn’t want his brother going too deep into Glenmore for fear that he wouldn’t come out, however, whereas The Ram…

“Is ‘his aw 'cause ya can't enter the games?” he said, but proceeded without waiting for an answer, “I can see it...yeah. Tell ya wot! We'll row it out for ya. Get sum of that ahht...but we'll make a wager. Awite?”

Deirdre

Deirdre kept her head level with her shoulders, she was preparing to lunge again when the pale stag started yapping. She circled him slowly, eyes fixed, looking for any sign of movement. This could still be a ruse. She let him have his moment of respite.

He brought up the games and she suddenly remembered why she was supposed to be angry. The games weren't even her most distressing source of bile, but it made for a convenient excuse. Her tail wrung impatiently. Deirdre dropped her weapon at her feet and set a foot on it so it could not easily be wrested a way.

"That and..." She began to reply, but Maddy continued over the top of her. She let him. She pricked an interested ear at the mention of a wager. She did so enjoy a contest.

"What kind of wager?"

Word count:

Deirdre: 1158
Madigan: 1097