She laughs.

Be it at his words, or the arrival of those who come to watch the battle, Confutatis obviously finds something utterly hilarious. Apollo simply watches her, the way that she cackles madly to herself, driven to madness by those internal demons. Her laughter did nothing except fuel his desire to see her fail, to drive this mar of darkness from his land and see that it never returned. How could Confutatis even begin to think that she, this broken, paranoid, psychotic creature, could lead a herd? A snort was his only reply to her quaking, manic laughter.

Did he wish her death? No. Apollo was not one of the Gods, nor was he a murderer, and a life, no matter how deteriorated and petty, was not his to take... Yet perhaps death would still be a mercy, to free Confutatis from her own demented mind. However, he would not be the one to deliver her.

The Chief's ears flick forward as Confutatis screams madly at those who have gathered to watch, screams at Phaedra, and Apollo spares them the briefest of glances. He cannot read their expressions in the rain, but he could only imagine what Phaedra the Opulent was feeling. Guilt, perhaps, that it had been she who allowed Confutatis into their home? Or righteous anger, that Apollo knew she was so capable of? Either way, it mattered not. These 'trespassing outcasts' were welcome upon his land, for they had been the ones to earn it. They had been the ones to fight for the Foothills, seasons ago, united fiercely as the Grey. Such devotion, such fierceness, well... Apollo didn't think Confutatis had the ability to comprehend it.

They were welcome here, but Confutatis was not.

The monochromatic overo watches her, his target, his challenger. He watches the way that she trembles, the baring of her teeth as though a stalking predator, the dementia shining in her eyes. In response, honey-brown eyes narrow, muscles quiver in anticipation, breath escaping him in collected breaths and muscles tightening to prepare for whatever strike she may send his way. This was the battle that would determine everything, but no matter the ending result, the war had just begun. Dethroned today or not, Confutatis would not see the end of him.

Come, demon-bitch, his mind whispers in a brief flare of indignant rage, Fight me like the warrior you pretend to be!

It seems that his patience outweighed hers, for the armored, ebony mare charged. That, or she had grown tired of the sound of her own voice. Apollo's rear left hoof moved backwards albeit slightly to brace himself, attempting to find purchase in the thick muck that lay at their feet. During her approach, Apollo was reminded of his battle with Tharos, and how the idiotic stallion had thrown himself into the fray with little thought. They were close in size, that idiot stallion and this demented mare before him now; close coupled, stocky, taller in height than Apollo himself.

You know how to pick them, Apollo. His mind teased, but he had no other time to give it thought before Confutatis was upon him. Her charge had been slow of pace, surely to avoid slipping and falling in the mud, her legs coated with the unsightly brown sludge just as his surely were. Slowing, Confutatis rears up, and he hears from her lips what he assumes is supposed to be a threat. 'I am the daughter of Oblivion the Demon King, and you - will - fall.' Apollo did not know this Oblivion, and never before had he heard the name... And from that alone, Apollo felt no fear from her hissed tactic of intimidation.

"You are a child," Apollo bellows in retort, bracing himself before attempting his attack, "A child playing in the shoes of your supposedly 'fearsome' father!" It was a foolish move, what he attempts to do next, but... Apollo was no warrior. He was no soldier. He was a medic turned Chief, and if defending his home meant protecting it with his body, then he would. Hoping that his timing was well enough, Apollo charges forward in the midst of the demonic-bitch's rear, tucking his head to hopefully poise his horn towards her exposed undercarriage and pushed forward off the muddy earth.

The pain which explodes upon his back is excruciating, the feel of Confutatis' flailing hooves sinking into the skin and sinewy muscles of his withers and back, prying forth a choked cry of pain from his lips. Still, clenching his eyes shut against the onslaught, Apollo attempts to finish his attack by driving forward, hoping his horn would penetrate the exposed flesh of Confutatis' belly... Or, in the very least, his attack might unbalance her in the chaos of the mud and rain.

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