The D'Belgain War *An awesome roleplay*

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RoostersAreAwesome said:
Bandit lunged forward and grabbed Ziggy’s neck feathers tightly in her beak. In the background, the d’watermael rooster sat entangled in the bush.
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“Youcan’tgetmethateasily!” Ziggy screeched, flying backwards out of Bandit’s grip and leaving Bandit with a mouthful of feathers.
 
Amer said:
“Youcan’tgetmethateasily!” Ziggy screeched, flying backwards out of Bandit’s grip and leaving Bandit with a mouthful of feathers.
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Bandit spat out the feathers and clicked her spurs like she was in the Wild West. She narrowed her eyes. “So be it, d’anvers.” She clucked. She advanced slowly, watching for Ziggy’s every move.
 
RoostersAreAwesome said:
Bandit grabbed at Ziggy’s beard, knowing that it was a low move. She leapt at her while she was restrained with her fake spurs out.
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Ziggy also knew that grabbing the beard was a decumbent (yeah I just gave a word a new definition because it sounded good) move. No self-respecting Belgian bantam would do that in a fight. Not a d’Anvers anyways.
“That’s low,” she growled as she was held in place. “One would expect it from a downy-digits like you...” she sneered, squirming away from the Frilly Millie’s face. Eventually she broke away—with the loss of a few striped beard feathers, which she mourned during a later date when her situation wasn’t so desperate— with a curse on the owl-footed freaks, but not without a few scratches as the spurs scratched her bare slate legs. She had little sensitivity there and hardly noticed, but she backed up when she saw her own blood on her legs.
Two scratches of her own to number, on her breast and her legs—and her poor beard—and none to be seen on Bandit. Clearly she needed an actual weapon. But she was too stupid to consider actually picking one up.
 
Amer said:
Ziggy also knew that grabbing the beard was a decumbent (yeah I just gave a word a new definition because it sounded good) move. No self-respecting Belgian bantam would do that in a fight. Not a d’Anvers anyways.
“That’s low,” she growled as she was held in place. “One would expect it from a downy-digits like you...” she sneered, squirming away from the Frilly Millie’s face. Eventually she broke away—with the loss of a few striped beard feathers, which she mourned during a later date when her situation wasn’t so desperate— with a curse on the owl-footed freaks, but not without a few scratches as the spurs scratched her bare slate legs. She had little sensitivity there and hardly noticed, but she backed up when she saw her own blood on her legs.
Two scratches of her own to number, on her breast and her legs—and her poor beard—and none to be seen on Bandit. Clearly she needed an actual weapon. But she was too stupid to consider actually picking one up.
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“C’mon, you bearded serama!” Bandit mocked, stalking back and forth with her feathers puffed up so much she looked twice her size. “Attack me, if you can!” She ducked her head and raised her hackles, waiting for her opponent to come to her.
 

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