Iartuupe - Manda
Sil'in Drathir - SkieBorne

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Herein lies the catalyst of the first arc of metaplot for the Aikanaro'hini. If
you wish to keep up to date with the goings on of the central story, read
on. Please note that this encounter was a very very public spectacle.
Reaction logs and RPs are most welcome. However, they should not effect
the events in this log, they are periphery characters and actions only.

Further installments of the pride metaplot will be posted with a similar tag to this one - [Meta Point].
These are the RPs that are moving the pride history, story, and plots along. Please pay attention to
these and read the notes that will be posted at the top of each RP.

This is the turning point for the pride. It is now that the Tournament of
Heirs is triggered and a new leader of the pride will fight his way to the
throne. Please see the appropriate thread for further information on the
Tournament of Heirs.

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Morifaer had taught him much, had filled his head with dreams of power and grandeur and sweet, sweet vengence. His life up until this point had been comprised of training and philosophical discussions, of garnering favour with the god and learning the ways of the Aran'shale. Drathir's heart was cold and closed as he stalked through the pridal dens, the air of a hunter, of a killer, clinging about him.

Through the dens, silent and severe... large enough now to challenge the most viscious male in the pride, he stood before Iartuupe's den and drew himself up high, squaring crimson shoulders and tossing golden mane, "Aran'shale Iartuupe! Tarenai Sil'in Drathir, son of Aran'shale Verge'lian, stands before and demands your presence! I challenge you, Aran'shale, to a formal duel! Your head shall be mine!" The last words were roared, resounding across the dens and drawing many a gaze. His challenge was unmistakable, the power in his voice undeniable - this was a lion possessed.

This was the law of the pride.

He smirked, that edge of arrogance that had been nurtured by Morifaer, twisted and shaped, whispering of certain victory at the back of the heir's mind.

Iar lifted his head from where he'd been lying and thinking about a few things. But upon hearing someone roaring outside, he was on his feet in seconds. Who would DARE to challenge him? And not only that, but to do so loudly enough for everyone to hear?

This was ridiculous. Stalking to the entrance of his den, he roared back in Drathir's face - a wordless, angry, defiance to the tone of it. NO ONE just walked up and challenged him for his throne .... no one.

Drathir stood there as the other roared at him and returned the gesture, rearing up and slamming his forepaws back into the ground, "Is that all you'll answer with, Iartuupe!? Are you so old and fragile you offer only sound? Fight me, Aran'shale! By the Pride's Honour, Duel me!"

Roaring against and tossing his mane in a teritorrial display, he cirled away and cleared a space in the throng that was gathering. Iar was one of the more feared lions in the pride - and Drathir was foolish enough to demand his own death? Murmurs raced out among the lions and when the duelling space was cleared he stood at its center, tall and proud.

"Do you admit your weakness so easily, Iartuupe?" He called, baiting the king.

"I am not WEAK!" Iar roared back, slamming his own paws against the ground, tail lashing. "You are a fool to challenge me, and so you'll be the one to die here! NOW!" And with that, he leapt for the other, coming in low and trying to catch Drathir's shoulders with his claws ... so that he could sink fangs into the arrogant lion's throat.

No roar answered Iar's angry charge, only the grunt and a smirk as the king came at him in the swift, sweeping motion Mori had taught him to avoid. Iartuupe was no weakling, not by any means, but Drathir was young and strong and his speed a honed, sharp thing.

Dodging to the side, he coiled legs and launched himself at the older lion, claws outstretched and lips pulled back in a vicious, wild snarl.

Iar slipped under Drathir's strike, however - then flipped over onto his back, reaching out with front paws to try and catch onto Drathir's body. If he could catch the other, he'd pull the younger lion down on top of him. Then he could use his powerful back claws to spill Drathir's guts all over the ground.

Iar's claws found little purchase in Drathir's flesh, however, and instead of trapping the younger royal, left ragged tracks along each side of his body as the heir sailed over top of the king. Landing awkwardly from the strange tactic, he slid to a stop sideways and roared at Iartuupe, trumpeting his displeasure.

Circling around, he maneouvered for a second attack, knowing to avoid those powerful hind legs. He had no desire to paint the mud red with his own blood. That honour was reserved for Iartuupe.

After a moment, he struck forward once more, a flash of plate-sized paws meant to slice across forelimbs and face.

Flipping back up onto his paws, Iar answered that roar with one of his own. This one might think that he knew how to fight, but Iar had been doing this far longer than Drathir had. Tail lashing from side to side, he slid to one side this time, and slapped at the younger lion's face in return. Blinding him would be very nice... mm ...

The blow connected, but it missed his eyes, instead slapping him to the side. Long used to the brutal blows, he barely staggered before he returned the gesture, throwing his own considerable strength into the motion. Tail lashing, he threw another punch in quick succession, trying to force the other male up into a wrestling match.

Iar obliged the other in that ... though now it was his head that was snapped to one side by Drathir's paws. He, too, had taken such blows before though. Shaking off the sting, Iar dropped down and charged for the younger lion's belly - hoping to knock him over.

The ferocity of the other surprised him - it seemed Iar would not stop! - and it was with an almost haphazard, desperate half-leap that he bounced up to flop on the other's back, hind legs raking at his shoulders and teeth tearing at the flesh of his back.

Quickly, though, he threw his weight to the side and dug in, trying to force Iartuupe onto his side.
That unexpected leap caught Iar by surprise, and he grunted at the sudden pain of claws raking along his shoulders. Then Drathir bit down and threw his weight to the side. Scrambling, Iar tried to keep his feet - but he sensed that he would fall. Well... so be it then.

Roaring, he turned the fall into a more controlled thing, throwing his own weight in the same direction that Drathir was pulling. He wasn't even sure anymore what effect that might have, but if he managed to surprise the other, maybe Drathir would let go of him.

Drathir cried out as Iartuupe turned the pull into a roll and the ridges of his decorative spine ornament drover into the heir's chest. The hot flashe of pain seared through him and he let go. Despite unhooking his claws, however, the prince kicked from his back position and drove his hind paws into the other's head.

Iar's head slammed into the ground at that, and the horns that he usually wore strapped to his forehead were knocked loose. As they clattered across the floor, the Aran'shale flailed and snapped his head around to bite at Drathir's feet.

Drathir flailed his feet at that, trying to avoid those snapping jaws while raking claws across Iar's flesh. In a bid for a better position - as being attached, backwards, to the top of your foe wasn't particularly productive - he kicked again and used Iar's head as a launch pad from which he leaped, digging in claws as he spun around to worry the king's hindquarters.

Iar flung his head backwards at that, though Drathir still caught some of that damage - blood running into his eyes. Scrambling to get back up to his feet, Iar twisted his body around to sink teeth into whatever flesh he could reach - trying to get Drathir off of him. He was starting to feel the blood loss by this point... needed to get some space so he could end this quickly.

Drathir cried out in pain as Iar grabbed his shoulder and dragged him down off his hindquarters. The odd fall forced the prince into a roll and as he hit the ground, he struck out with a paw, taking the opportunity to try and lance the king's throat. "Damn you!"

Iar ducked his head in at that, claws passing harmlessly through his mane. He was still twisted at an awkward angle however... so those claws ended up laying open his shoulder almost to the bone. Roaring at the sting from that, Iar shook his head - willing away dizziness from pain and the loss of so much blood. Then he dove at Drathir - aiming for the younger lion's throat...since he was so conveniently on the ground now.

The rumble of the other and the glint of victory he saw in Iar's eyes made the predicament all the more apparent as he struggled against the king's pin. Flailing, he finally worked his hind legs under the Aran'shale and heaved, raking even as he kicked as hard as he could. "GET OFF ME!!"

Iar roared at the gashes that left along his stomach, Drathir's kick sending him flying over the other in a short arc. He landed heavily, but struggled back up to his feet - spinning to face the other. "NO ONE DEFEATS ME!" he screamed in defiance, tail lashing as he waited for Drathir to get up also. And it wasn't because of any sort of charity or mercy on his part... he was simply -tired-, needing a moment to collect himself again.

Panting, chest heaving, Drathir rolled onto his stomach and stood, head lowered, eyes fixed on this hated idol. "Shut up, old fool! Your insults are wasted breath now, no better then the chaff beneath my feet." Roaring in echoing defiance, he lifted his head and braced his legs as he caught a deep breath and ran at Iartuupe. The Aran'shale was tired, bleeding... but he was no easy foe, more experienced, more vicious, and Drathir knew if he did not finish this soon, he would not at all and he would not prove his idiotic father or Iartuupe or any other of the ignorant fools who did not believe in his strength.

Amin could perish in the fires of the volcanoes, the chosen one was him. He was the strongest, he was favoured by Morifaerion, he was better then Iartuupe and his arrogant mewling.

He snarled as he met Iartuupe and reared up in a desperate clash of body and will.

Iar reared up on his own hind legs in return - reaching out with his his front paws to slap at the other's face. He would NOT lose this fight, would not allow Drathir to end his life and end his dominance over HIS pride. Would ... NOT ... allow it...

An exchange of blows.
Sprays of blood as claws raked across tender, snarling flesh.
The rumbling, muffled growl of two males driving for the kill.

An opportunity had been torn open as one royal’s paws were driven wide, angry red slashes trailing drops of blood. They struck then, the flash of teeth brief, almost too fast to see, and for a moment, Drathir and Iartuupe seemed braced against each other, their forelimbs wrapped around one another, claws sunk into flesh like primitive piercings. Blood oozed over fur, fell to the ground and stained the stirred up mud red.

A sigh, a grunt… the distinctly wet sound of tearing flesh echoed in the sudden silence announcing a winner.

But who? The two bodies were braced against each other, their feet small-stepping, as if dancing.

When Iartuupe fell, it was graceful, almost liquid motion as he slumped to the ground and Drathir followed, his foe’s teeth still clamped onto his shoulder. Even in his dying breaths, Iartuupe strove to leave his mark, to burn an unforgettable memory into the mind of his foe.

For a moment longer, Drathir remained motionless, nostrils flaring with the effort of not collapsing as well. When the tension eased from the other’s body and the soft, strangled sigh of death escaped, he crunched his teeth together and tore out Iartuupe’s throat with a growl that grew into a full-bodied roar as he stood over the dead Aran’shale’s body.

Breathing heavily, he staggered a pace away and paused to stare at Iartuupe, at the glassy, hateful stare and curled his lip in satisfaction, “Now, Iartuupe, who is the weakling?”

Tossing his head, he roared his victory again and lifted his gaze to the gathered crowd, “Summon the Tarenai, the Tournament is triggered.”