[center][h2] [color=f7941d]Rostam[/color] [/h2][/center]
[h3][center] [s]Party[/s] [s]Battle[/s] [color=darkred]SUPER PARTY FIELD [/color][/center][/h3]
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For the greater part of his life the assurity of victory had been part of Rostam. A complete confidence in his power which, most of the time, was in itself a sort of power. Had he died of natural causes, or suddenly, as did the great giant Starkad, this great blast from the Jeweled Sword might have been his end. 

Rostam had been humbled thrice before his death however, and though he perhaps did not possess the same unreasoning confidence of his youth, the defeats had tempered him in other ways. Rostam had ridden in fully expecting a reprisal, and as Rakhsh started at the sight of the rainbow sword, he trusted in his steeds instincts and had swung himself back in the saddle, pulling his reigns in the opposite direction they had been leaning. 

With deer like agility that belied his size Rakhsh made a mighty leap to the side, throwing all his strength into reversing the tremendous momentum of his charge, darting clear of the cone of destruction that the crystal sword unleashed. With a bound that an observer might be forgiven for mistaking for flight, the horse and rider were airborne, arcing over the battlefield to land hard on the far end of the field, nearly full opposite of his original line of trajectory. 

Even for such a horse as Rakhsh however, the sudden sharp turn had been to much. As they landed, the horse let out a loud whinny of pain, and his footing faltered. For a moment it looked as if Rostam might be pitched from the saddle. Keeping a strong grip with his legs Rostam kept his seat, maintaining his balance and waiting for Rakhsh to right himself before he dismounted. 

Rakhshs front left leg was red and swollen at the knee, the noble beast now holding it carefully off the ground as he stumbled forward neighing and tossing his head wildly back and forth. 

With an angry noise deep in his throat Rostam dismissed his lamed mount, Rakhsh dissolving in a shower of white and red sparks. The sparks were still dancing around his massive frame when he turned back towards the strange sorcerer who had injured his lifelong companion, his eyes dark with rage, his hands pale as they gripped the massive oaken mace in his hand. 

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[@Moonlit Sonata] [@Holy Grail]