In this cruel game we played with each other, it was hard to not hurt our friends and families. It was even more difficult to be merciful when they pounded us with responsibilities, strife and the like. Africa was learned in this lesson, even as I tried to make my strikes as gentle as possible. It was futile to not feel pain and still learn something—we grew though the pain, learned to accept it, and sometimes to even embrace our world of agony.

Her slender limb brushed my mouth long enough for teeth to settle and withdraw all in one rapid pass. I didn’t bite down with an intent on crushing her leg. She shies away from the pain regardless of my intent though, even as the curve of my hoof finds her fleshy side in a blunt halfhearted kick. There is no victory, I didn’t take pleasure from teaching our family how to fight, how to use the pain and turn it against their enemies.

Africa rose to the occasion. She planted her feet, and I could feel the attack coming but sadly luck would have me in a position where I wouldn’t be quick enough to avoid it. Ears slipped back against the moist mat of tangled mane. Her strong quarters and ample size were quick enough to land a solid blow against the right side of my barrel and the wing that had curled itself tightly there. The pure force of her all out thrust was enough to pry a shocked cry from lips. Round daggers held nothing back as they planted themselves aggressively against the mass of my ivory feathers and ribs.

Pain erupted from the area which she struck, it gushed though my blood and into the recesses of the brain that registered damage. It was my turn to sidestep away; using my smaller portioned frame to gain a little distance between us. Her breeding was swift enough to keep my toes active and apparently strong enough to make me proud. The surprise from her attack was short-lived, and quickly wore off; instead of anger my facade was replaced with a breathless grin, “Good,” I hissed approvingly.

My right wing remains curled in tightly against my side—uselessly bruised. I kept it there because even I was to stretch it out now, the pain wouldn’t help my cause. This Sultan was beginning to understand how she had survived her attackers. Glinting eyes watched as Africa plowed away though the sand, escaping near the surf. Thunder clouds raced above as I recovered and cantered ahead in a strong but weighted pace. Smooth sand collapsed beneath me.

A plan formed to meet her next attack head on. I skid to a stop when she turned to face me, purposely digging my heels into the sand and throwing my one uninjured left wing into the loose mess of soft surf. Scooping up the granules in a swift down beat, I tried to send the flying mess of sand in her direction on the upbeat. Hoping to blind her vision—one second later I had swung my wing back and shifted weight into a standing rear. Forlimbs stuck the air impressively, scattering sand and shells as they went up and down, eager to bite into her flesh. Head uncoiled toward her face or neck, snapping at whatever came in close vicinity.

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Attack: (2,3)