You suppose that you should have better planned the whole ramming into Elsa thing. She steps to the side with ease, avoiding your barreling chest that could have inflicted so much pain. What she doesn't avoid is your teeth, which clamp down aggressively. The taste of fur in your mouth as you pull back is enough to make you smile, enough to make you pleased, but it's not enough to sate you. Your lust for revenge only grows, your heart only pumps faster. Kellian deserves more, deserves agony, deserves death if you can give it to her. And give it to her you would, given the chance. Nevermind that this is your herdmate, Elsa.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Elsa rear, turning towards you. If you'd stopped moving you might have taken hooves to the face, but you never even slowed. Still, being a draft, your canter is not fast. Elsa's hooves catch the very hind end of your rump as you pass, tearing at your tender flesh and making you scream- a terrible sound, but not all because of the pain. You're enraged. You let Kellian- no, Elsa- hit you, bruise you even. You can feel it, the slow pulsing of blood as it rushes to the site of injury, the way the muscles stiffen, the way pain comes to your brain in waves of nerve impulses. You bite your teeth against the assault, grind them, lay your ears back. How dare she.

As soon as you can manage, you skid to an awkward stop, lowering your head and bucking out. Your metal horseshoes glint in the Orangemoon sun as you try to reach for Kel- Elsa. You suppose, if your hooves are able to make contact and if Elsa doesn't move, that you'll hit her somewhere around the junction of wing and shoulder. But you don't consider it too much. Your left shoulder is burning as you cause a flare up an old injury from the mysterious gray bitch that bested you. You're not agile, not made for trying to stop so quickly, and you're reaping the consequences. Briefly, memories of that feeling of fire eating your shoulder interrupt your rage; however, a gentle reminder from your companion about Kellian gets you back on track. Funny. It's like the little boggart wants you enraged. As your hind limbs touch the ground again, you have a noticeable limp on your left front side. You could really go for some of your locoweed right about now.

In an attempt to shift some weight off of your left shoulder, you make a wide turn to the right at a trot, coming back towards where you think Elsa should be. The one thing you don't stop doing is moving. If you stop moving, your anger might morph from hatred to something else... a broken heart. But you don't want that to happen, because you don't- no, can't- feel like you owe her something. Because you don't want to miss her, you don't want to want her again. You want to hate her, to rip her to shreds, to make her feel every ounce of pain that she caused you. Can physical pain ever make up for the mental anguish she put you through? You're not sure but you'll try.

You remember the trial now that your mind is free of your plants. You stood before the council, surrounded by the king's best men, decked out in their best armor. You were stripped of your chest plate, your chain mail, your dignity. They were accusing you of things you never did- could never do if you wanted to. The death of the king's brother. You were a warrior, but no murderer. Not then. And Kellian. She stood off to the side, watching the whole thing, the best and only friend you had in the whole world. She was beautiful, the only one who had stood beside you after you fell to your drug habit. She had been there through every high and low, every trip and fall you had ever made. She knew it was an accident, knew it was a mistake, that you had ever gotten into that patch of weeds. She also knew you were innocent.

In a flash, you're back on the field, your mind not sure how to handle its lack of drugs, blending and mixing images to such a degree that you hardly understand what's going on. But you think you see Elsa, and you know you feel fury and you know you want Kellian dead. So you keep trying to move towards her, to close the distance even though you know she'll probably attack. Unbeknownst to you, your boggart slips from her spot in your shoulder bag. She has plans of her own.

Words: 800
Post: 2/3