[ Flight, Joshua is quickly finding out, is a double-edged sword. While it has helped him to escape immediate range, the movement of his wings needed to keep him aloft now pulls at his injured shoulder. The only blessing is how dulled the pain is for now. It will be much worse in a handful of hours, once the adrenaline has worn off - or, it would be, were he to survive this encounter.
River isn't giving him a moment to breathe, though. Not that he expected it. In a proper duel, much would be different. This is anything but proper. This feels like his fight with Barnabas over the open sea all over again, though on far more even footing.
But that gives him an idea. Fighting is not something he's needed to do much of since he'd obtained these wings, but what difference is there, truly, between his primed Phoenix form with its talons, and his current form with his sword? Very little, fundamentally. All he needs to do is fight as though he is primed.
The halberd swings at him, the movement still too quick to fully avoid, but a quick ascent at least gets his more vulnerable areas out of the line of fire. The axe's blade still slices cleanly against his thigh as he dodges out of the way, a stinging line of fire that makes him hiss as he twists mid-air. He has no doubt there will be quite the gash left behind. ]
Perhaps only to you.
[ Rhetorical question or not, he's not opposed to a bit of banter.
With his skill in flight, it takes very little effort to shift himself mid-air, then swoop sharply downwards as if dive-bombing River, head first with blade at the ready. Once he's within range, his sword arm swings out in lieu of talons, slashing his blade down in an effort to strike whatever it may hit. If he can even temporarily disable River, all the better. ]
[That same wild smile resurfaces as bright and feverish as it was prior when his axe's blade makes contact. None of these blows have been quite as devastating as he might have liked, but there was a marked difference in the stakes. Fighting as mortals do—even as they boast advantages that mortals would never have—makes things all the more grounded. If this were truly a battle at their bests, River has no doubt this section of the forest would be flattened in the aftermath.
This time, he makes an effort to react accordingly to Joshua's advance. Although a part of him yearns to simply take the sword to the shoulder, respect dictates he attempt a proper parry.
As it turns out, it is relatively difficult to calculate the trajectory required for a clean parry when your opponent is airborne. Their weapons clash, but it is messy. The vibration of it sends an unpleasant streak of pain down the length of River's forearm; this is doubly worsened by the fact the sword's swing splits his arm open at the sensitive junction of his elbow.
If it were not for his armor and the curative power of the Forest, he idly wonders if his arm would have been severed entirely. Instead, for the briefer moment, it hangs at an acute angle. River laughs as if he has been gifted some eminently precious and drops his halberd entirely.
In lieu of attacking with his weapon or waiting for his arm to fully heal, he grabs for Joshua to physically pull him out of the sky. He pulls downward with as much weight as he can physically muster if he is able to grab anything at all. He is sneering even as the fingers on his opposite hand twitch ineffectively, momentarily stilled from severed tendon and muscle.]
Get down from there. [He manages to sound petulant. Almost pouty.] It's no fun if we're not eye-to-eye.
[ There's a little thrill of victory as Joshua feels his blade strike flesh, even though he knows it won't have any lasting effect. The momentum of the parry being dropped leaves the flap of his wings pushing him forward rather than against, and so, in the moment immediately after, it's as if he continues to fly over River's head.
But he doesn't miss the way that River's arm hangs at a grotesque angle, nor the way that River drops his weapon. He's been in combat before, still remembers the scent of burnt flesh that in reality lingered for only a second as soldiers were incinerate instantaneously, but still lives on in his nightmares. And somehow, he thinks that this image, this snapshot in time, will stick with him in the same fashion.
Unfortunately, with his forward momentum, he doesn't stand a chance at evading River's sudden grab. His hand draws a fistful of Joshua's shirt, and the next thing that Joshua knows is sudden, exploding pain, the sound of what almost sounds like thin wood cracking, and a brief second of not very blissful darkness.
River wanted him out of the sky, and he's certainly got his wish. In the impact with the ground, one of Joshua's wings is now a broken, mangled mess of leathery skin and torn feathers, the thin bones protruding from it all in patches here and there.
Joshua muffles a sharp noise behind his teeth, but still tries his best to stand despite it all. He stabs his sword into the dirt, using it as a crutch to push himself upright, wing now hanging uselessly off of his back. No, this is still too early. He can't be down yet. He promised a good fight. ]
[It reminds him of a songbird crashing headlong into a window. The meaty crack of weight, the snapping, the graceless swan dive to the earth.
If River were a kinder man, or one far less fixated on the wholehearted experience of the battle, he might not have thrown Joshua to the ground with nearly as much force. He might have deigned to simply reel Joshua to him, to press into that proximity he had just crooned about. He does not.
A realization clicks icily into place at the myriad sound of cracking bones: while not entirely hollow like one would expect from a bird’s body, those wings were delicate. The fact one had been rendered entirely ineffective by one hearty brush with the ground… River neatly catalogues this information even as he watches Joshua push himself to his feet with the aid of his sword. It was unlikely they would find themselves in this specific scenario again, but it was a warrior's natural inclination to remember the nuances of their foe.
Even as River’s flesh mends itself, Joshua’s wing hangs at an awkward angle. If this were nature–if they were beasts–it would be a mercy to set his teeth to Joshua’s throat.
He ruminates on his options. Ultimately, he bends at the waist to pick up his halberd, tail stirring the frostbitten grass underfoot. For the moment, he holds back from pressing the advantage.]
[ If this were a normal, proper duel, this is the point where Joshua would formally surrender. No sense in hurting yourself further when something is broken, and especially not while abilities have been stolen away. A broken wing is easier to mend with magicks. The more manual way... not so much.
But this isn't a proper duel. He has already made his peace with the very real possibility of not walking away from this fight. He will continue, for better or for worse. ]
I am fine.
[ Even if it's said through gritted teeth. Even if his clothes are stained with blood and his body smeared with dirt. Even if his wing lay limp like a cape behind him. He isn't fine, but he's fine to continue, and he can certainly move. His sword arm is still good, and though his thigh burns from the gash delivered to it mere minutes ago, he can stand.
He can do this. He must do this.
The sword is removed from the dirt and held at the ready. His arm wavers, just a little, from the pain beginning to set in from most parts of his body, but he presses on, steadies it as much as he can.
And then he rushes in to strike, growling through grit teeth and blood-flecked lips, slashing diagonally downward toward River's shoulder. ]
[Distantly, River recalls the thought he had had earlier regarding Joshua’s dedication to his role. To his duty. Was this an acceptance of duty? A necessity he thought he must grit his teeth through due to a flimsily made promise when they had first stepped into this makeshift ring?
River had wanted Joshua to fight for his life: that much was true. And yet, the sight of him pitching to and fro like a broken pinwheel evoked a feeling that was not quite satisfaction. Interest, perhaps, and the faintest dash of pity. How much pain would Joshua endure if it were out of some preestablished condition?
Still. There is more than enough to establish a respect that had already begun to bud. Lesser men would surely have yielded the very moment a bone snapped.
And it is not as if Joshua is helpless. That is proven rather handily when he still manages to catch River with that slash of his sword, even as River moves to step out of its range. This time, the halberd does not slip from his grip when his skin splits from underarm to shoulder. A faint, nagging predisposition murmurs that he ought to reach out and grab his opponent by that mangled, useless wing for deigning to still oppose his inevitable fate.
A part of him wonders, idly, if it is the Leviathan still managing to speak to him. He swats the thought aside.
If Joshua intended to still give this the whole of his energy, it was only natural for River to do the same. Although the heft and angle is awkward given the proximity and the fresh wound, he leans far enough to give him the leverage necessary to aim a jab towards the man’s abdomen.]
[ While it is true that Joshua has a determination to see this through, it is not exactly a determination born of duty. Rosfields are notoriously bad at staying down. It is not in his blood to die without a fight. If even in his final breaths he can still make an impact, it is breath well spent.
Unfortunately, he doesn't know whether he is truly making an impact or not. He supposes that answer will come once he recovers, or once he returns from death, whichever the case may be. All he can do is all he can do, and anything short of everything would be a disappointment to himself, let alone his opponent.
His blade hits home, slicing easily through flesh and muscle and flinging blood between the two of them. Joshua huffs out a soft, breathy laugh bordering on the tightness of a cough, and shifts his sword to continue his assault.
But he is in too close to dodge a direct stab from a weapon as long as a halberd. There is no time to pivot, no time to shift at all, and his wings are now useless even if one of them is fine. A single wing won't let him do much.
The blade pierces his stomach effortlessly, and for a moment it doesn't even really feel like anything. The chill of the metal is all that registers, and then a moment later, the pressure. Soon after that, the uncomfortably wet feeling of fabric sticking to skin, and the ache and the difficulty in movement that comes with being impaled. All in the span of a very long, very agonizing second.
Ah. This is it, then. He'd already been losing blood from the shoulder wound, from the broken wing, but this... there is no coming back from this.
With a soft grunt, Joshua shifts. But this time, it isn't to remove himself from the halberd. This time, it is to bring his sword up, to try to drive it into River's chest with all of his remaining strength backing a shout.
He cannot kill River. But he can go out with one hell of a memorable blow. ]
[Their twin realizations click into place simultaneously. River’s revelation comes in the form of the resistance from Joshua’s abdomen to the blade of his halberd. Given how their battle had gone up until his point, he is wholly anticipating that Joshua will try and wrest himself off the point of said blade.
When that motion does not come, when Joshua instead aims his sword for River’s sternum with an almighty—if choked—yell, the frenzied delight that had fled resurfaces with such vigor that River smiles with all his teeth. It is that feral grin that remains transfixed on his face the moment the blade pierces the muscle of his chest. The pain is secondary to his glee, so powerful is it.
A second revelation surfaces. River bears down with all his weight to push Joshua’s body to the ground, tail stirring up frost and grass as it lashes energetically. His inclination towards respect had been well-founded. He aches, suddenly, to fight this man on equal terms. To raze this Grove to the ground beneath the swelling tides of their respective power. To throw away all inhibition in a true and proper fight to the death. He longs to be challenged, a thousand times over.
The eyes that stare down at Joshua’s face still lack light, but there is just enough color for it to be blatantly obvious he is pleased. Both his hands white-knuckle the hilt of his halberd as he twists the blade, laughing brightly through his own blood and between his gnashing teeth.]
Well-played. Job well done, indeed. If it weren’t for the Forest’s blessing, we’d both be dying tonight.
[He, somehow, ridiculously, finds this to be the utmost proper moment to wink.]
Don’t worry, your highness. I promise I’ll give you your sword back~.
[ The sudden ferocity should be expected, Joshua thinks idly as he's being shoved backwards to the ground, halberd still impaling him through the middle. It only lasts a moment, but the way that River grins will be embedded in his memory for a long, long time.
And then River twists the halberd, sending his vision white and his ears ringing for a moment as pain explodes through his body and his throat rapidly expels a burst of blood in a ragged cough. Joshua grits his teeth, voice wavering in a watery sort of way as the pain nearly consumes him. River's words almost don't entirely register, but the glimpses of the other man's eyes are really all he needs to know what the man is conveying.
There's blood staining everything now, pooling wetly beneath him as the halberd continues to do damage to his abdomen. But not once does his hand release the hilt of his sword. His knuckles are just as white.
With his vision going black at the edges already, he almost misses the wink. Almost. ]
Please. [ His words are choked out, wet, blood staining his lips and teeth as he tries between gasped breaths. ] It... I-it is-- important.
[ He feels cold. His lips particularly so, and he isn't sure why that of all things surprises him the most. River is little more than a hazy silhouette in his vision, and his eyes feel heavy, but his mind decides to focus on how cold his lips are.
Within a matter of seconds, Joshua's fingers slip from their death grip on his sword, falling limply to his side as darkness finally takes him. ]
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sticksandbones2026-02-02 12:07 pm
no subject
River isn't giving him a moment to breathe, though. Not that he expected it. In a proper duel, much would be different. This is anything but proper. This feels like his fight with Barnabas over the open sea all over again, though on far more even footing.
But that gives him an idea. Fighting is not something he's needed to do much of since he'd obtained these wings, but what difference is there, truly, between his primed Phoenix form with its talons, and his current form with his sword? Very little, fundamentally. All he needs to do is fight as though he is primed.
The halberd swings at him, the movement still too quick to fully avoid, but a quick ascent at least gets his more vulnerable areas out of the line of fire. The axe's blade still slices cleanly against his thigh as he dodges out of the way, a stinging line of fire that makes him hiss as he twists mid-air. He has no doubt there will be quite the gash left behind. ]
Perhaps only to you.
[ Rhetorical question or not, he's not opposed to a bit of banter.
With his skill in flight, it takes very little effort to shift himself mid-air, then swoop sharply downwards as if dive-bombing River, head first with blade at the ready. Once he's within range, his sword arm swings out in lieu of talons, slashing his blade down in an effort to strike whatever it may hit. If he can even temporarily disable River, all the better. ]
Gore CW
This time, he makes an effort to react accordingly to Joshua's advance. Although a part of him yearns to simply take the sword to the shoulder, respect dictates he attempt a proper parry.
As it turns out, it is relatively difficult to calculate the trajectory required for a clean parry when your opponent is airborne. Their weapons clash, but it is messy. The vibration of it sends an unpleasant streak of pain down the length of River's forearm; this is doubly worsened by the fact the sword's swing splits his arm open at the sensitive junction of his elbow.
If it were not for his armor and the curative power of the Forest, he idly wonders if his arm would have been severed entirely. Instead, for the briefer moment, it hangs at an acute angle. River laughs as if he has been gifted some eminently precious and drops his halberd entirely.
In lieu of attacking with his weapon or waiting for his arm to fully heal, he grabs for Joshua to physically pull him out of the sky. He pulls downward with as much weight as he can physically muster if he is able to grab anything at all. He is sneering even as the fingers on his opposite hand twitch ineffectively, momentarily stilled from severed tendon and muscle.]
Get down from there. [He manages to sound petulant. Almost pouty.] It's no fun if we're not eye-to-eye.
cw gore, broken bones
But he doesn't miss the way that River's arm hangs at a grotesque angle, nor the way that River drops his weapon. He's been in combat before, still remembers the scent of burnt flesh that in reality lingered for only a second as soldiers were incinerate instantaneously, but still lives on in his nightmares. And somehow, he thinks that this image, this snapshot in time, will stick with him in the same fashion.
Unfortunately, with his forward momentum, he doesn't stand a chance at evading River's sudden grab. His hand draws a fistful of Joshua's shirt, and the next thing that Joshua knows is sudden, exploding pain, the sound of what almost sounds like thin wood cracking, and a brief second of not very blissful darkness.
River wanted him out of the sky, and he's certainly got his wish. In the impact with the ground, one of Joshua's wings is now a broken, mangled mess of leathery skin and torn feathers, the thin bones protruding from it all in patches here and there.
Joshua muffles a sharp noise behind his teeth, but still tries his best to stand despite it all. He stabs his sword into the dirt, using it as a crutch to push himself upright, wing now hanging uselessly off of his back. No, this is still too early. He can't be down yet. He promised a good fight. ]
Gore CW
If River were a kinder man, or one far less fixated on the wholehearted experience of the battle, he might not have thrown Joshua to the ground with nearly as much force. He might have deigned to simply reel Joshua to him, to press into that proximity he had just crooned about. He does not.
A realization clicks icily into place at the myriad sound of cracking bones: while not entirely hollow like one would expect from a bird’s body, those wings were delicate. The fact one had been rendered entirely ineffective by one hearty brush with the ground… River neatly catalogues this information even as he watches Joshua push himself to his feet with the aid of his sword. It was unlikely they would find themselves in this specific scenario again, but it was a warrior's natural inclination to remember the nuances of their foe.
Even as River’s flesh mends itself, Joshua’s wing hangs at an awkward angle. If this were nature–if they were beasts–it would be a mercy to set his teeth to Joshua’s throat.
He ruminates on his options. Ultimately, he bends at the waist to pick up his halberd, tail stirring the frostbitten grass underfoot. For the moment, he holds back from pressing the advantage.]
Can you move?
no subject
But this isn't a proper duel. He has already made his peace with the very real possibility of not walking away from this fight. He will continue, for better or for worse. ]
I am fine.
[ Even if it's said through gritted teeth. Even if his clothes are stained with blood and his body smeared with dirt. Even if his wing lay limp like a cape behind him. He isn't fine, but he's fine to continue, and he can certainly move. His sword arm is still good, and though his thigh burns from the gash delivered to it mere minutes ago, he can stand.
He can do this. He must do this.
The sword is removed from the dirt and held at the ready. His arm wavers, just a little, from the pain beginning to set in from most parts of his body, but he presses on, steadies it as much as he can.
And then he rushes in to strike, growling through grit teeth and blood-flecked lips, slashing diagonally downward toward River's shoulder. ]
no subject
River had wanted Joshua to fight for his life: that much was true. And yet, the sight of him pitching to and fro like a broken pinwheel evoked a feeling that was not quite satisfaction. Interest, perhaps, and the faintest dash of pity. How much pain would Joshua endure if it were out of some preestablished condition?
Still. There is more than enough to establish a respect that had already begun to bud. Lesser men would surely have yielded the very moment a bone snapped.
And it is not as if Joshua is helpless. That is proven rather handily when he still manages to catch River with that slash of his sword, even as River moves to step out of its range. This time, the halberd does not slip from his grip when his skin splits from underarm to shoulder. A faint, nagging predisposition murmurs that he ought to reach out and grab his opponent by that mangled, useless wing for deigning to still oppose his inevitable fate.
A part of him wonders, idly, if it is the Leviathan still managing to speak to him. He swats the thought aside.
If Joshua intended to still give this the whole of his energy, it was only natural for River to do the same. Although the heft and angle is awkward given the proximity and the fresh wound, he leans far enough to give him the leverage necessary to aim a jab towards the man’s abdomen.]
no subject
Unfortunately, he doesn't know whether he is truly making an impact or not. He supposes that answer will come once he recovers, or once he returns from death, whichever the case may be. All he can do is all he can do, and anything short of everything would be a disappointment to himself, let alone his opponent.
His blade hits home, slicing easily through flesh and muscle and flinging blood between the two of them. Joshua huffs out a soft, breathy laugh bordering on the tightness of a cough, and shifts his sword to continue his assault.
But he is in too close to dodge a direct stab from a weapon as long as a halberd. There is no time to pivot, no time to shift at all, and his wings are now useless even if one of them is fine. A single wing won't let him do much.
The blade pierces his stomach effortlessly, and for a moment it doesn't even really feel like anything. The chill of the metal is all that registers, and then a moment later, the pressure. Soon after that, the uncomfortably wet feeling of fabric sticking to skin, and the ache and the difficulty in movement that comes with being impaled. All in the span of a very long, very agonizing second.
Ah. This is it, then. He'd already been losing blood from the shoulder wound, from the broken wing, but this... there is no coming back from this.
With a soft grunt, Joshua shifts. But this time, it isn't to remove himself from the halberd. This time, it is to bring his sword up, to try to drive it into River's chest with all of his remaining strength backing a shout.
He cannot kill River. But he can go out with one hell of a memorable blow. ]
no subject
When that motion does not come, when Joshua instead aims his sword for River’s sternum with an almighty—if choked—yell, the frenzied delight that had fled resurfaces with such vigor that River smiles with all his teeth. It is that feral grin that remains transfixed on his face the moment the blade pierces the muscle of his chest. The pain is secondary to his glee, so powerful is it.
A second revelation surfaces. River bears down with all his weight to push Joshua’s body to the ground, tail stirring up frost and grass as it lashes energetically. His inclination towards respect had been well-founded. He aches, suddenly, to fight this man on equal terms. To raze this Grove to the ground beneath the swelling tides of their respective power. To throw away all inhibition in a true and proper fight to the death. He longs to be challenged, a thousand times over.
The eyes that stare down at Joshua’s face still lack light, but there is just enough color for it to be blatantly obvious he is pleased. Both his hands white-knuckle the hilt of his halberd as he twists the blade, laughing brightly through his own blood and between his gnashing teeth.]
Well-played. Job well done, indeed. If it weren’t for the Forest’s blessing, we’d both be dying tonight.
[He, somehow, ridiculously, finds this to be the utmost proper moment to wink.]
Don’t worry, your highness. I promise I’ll give you your sword back~.
no subject
And then River twists the halberd, sending his vision white and his ears ringing for a moment as pain explodes through his body and his throat rapidly expels a burst of blood in a ragged cough. Joshua grits his teeth, voice wavering in a watery sort of way as the pain nearly consumes him. River's words almost don't entirely register, but the glimpses of the other man's eyes are really all he needs to know what the man is conveying.
There's blood staining everything now, pooling wetly beneath him as the halberd continues to do damage to his abdomen. But not once does his hand release the hilt of his sword. His knuckles are just as white.
With his vision going black at the edges already, he almost misses the wink. Almost. ]
Please. [ His words are choked out, wet, blood staining his lips and teeth as he tries between gasped breaths. ] It... I-it is-- important.
[ He feels cold. His lips particularly so, and he isn't sure why that of all things surprises him the most. River is little more than a hazy silhouette in his vision, and his eyes feel heavy, but his mind decides to focus on how cold his lips are.
Within a matter of seconds, Joshua's fingers slip from their death grip on his sword, falling limply to his side as darkness finally takes him. ]