Of failure, she was unafraid, but not because of acceptance of a misstep- rather, because of conviction in the impossibility of incompetence in her job.

Her hopes were to be unachieved; her hooves did not crack down on the icicle crown of Seele’s head, nor did her knee land on fleshy chest. The Glassfox was bending around the harlot, precious cranium casually thrown out of the way- and almost immediately swung back, silver sword reaching out to cut at the tender flesh of the hellion’s stomach. Alas, Seele’s goal is doomed- Confutatis does not have the excellent balance to remain on two legs for so long; her hooves were coming down, her efforts having accumulated to nothing but a shallow scrape (if even that) on the seal bay’s topline. Confutatis moving downwards, the foe’s dagger scraped upwards along her right shoulder, where the bones of her rotted ancestors cling, and protect her from any harm (except for chafing.)

It is not in the succubus’ nature to doubt her actions; why should she bother to throw herself into combat if she thought she was to lose? But in that moment, in the miserable outcome of dance and attack, she had been left her with poignant memories of a king medic defeating her in the wicked movements of combat. There would be no repeat of that. Not here, not today.

Hooves clattered on the slick surface of diamond-like substance as she came to all fours, pitched forward slightly and awkwardly as she absorbed the impact in her frogs. It was with subtle delicacy and utmost swiftness that she arranged her posture to convey her attitude; the curve of her neck pronounces as she lifted her head tall- challenging, daring the Necromancer who slithers and slips on the floor to face her- the activity of her ears, the tension that has her quivering, feet groping for a grip. There were no seconds. It was simply her rapid pulse and accelerated breathing, the coil of muscle and sinew shifting beneath rippling ebony skin, the rasp of lungs inhaling and exhaling. This was all as she scrabbled, off-balance from her landing, trying to halt in her skating, mirroring the action of Seele with one exception: Seele recovered before her.

There were curses and worries flaring in her thoughts, too rapid to rationalize, too wicked to put word to; a sequence of cruelty and savagery. She was feral; Lady Death, daughter of Oblivion, born from rape and lust; she was to be a fucking QUEEN, who was this mare to stop her?

And then that crystal horn was cutting a clean, prim line along the lower right side of her barrel, where the muscle lay flat and thin. It did not gush blood suddenly; but Confutatis was fairly certain that upon movement, red would eventually trickle free. But there was no time to dwell on thoughts of injury, nor to take stock, because the Saddlebred was turning her prim ass away from Confutatis- and she was absolute in the belief the bitch was not about to run, which only left a kick to the face. Apollo had done the same to her; and she had no intention of allowing a repeat.

Did she regret that storm-tossed day? Y e s. Maybe some thought the succubus ensnared in corrupted dreams of power would not have time for the more trivial emotions of woe and repentance. They would think wrong. Her downfalls and losses she lamented, because she had lost a chance, a hope, and she would have to fight again, another day, for the same ambition.

Although it did not lessen her contempt of the Merciful, who she blamed for altogether too much.

Acidic jaws gaped as she lunged forward towards those thrashing hind legs, reaching out towards face and chest and forelegs. Seele will not have the satisfaction of victory today, nor tomorrow, or even the day after. This she would refuse- she would not tilt her cranium to Seele as the better opponent, the worthy adversary, the dominator. It is for this reason, this refusal to bow her skull, that “forces” her into a position which could easily backfire (though it is a risk she is willing to take.) Poison lips seek hold of Seele’s left leg, anywhere from the fetlock joint to coronet band- would she achieve it? Would her yellowed teeth clutch and shake, yank and pull, force her to fall and crumble beneath the infectious behavior of her corrosive mouth? Would the Glassfox go lame, dislocate a leg trying to pull free of those clenching incisors?

She did hope so. It would be a pleasant convenience if her future captive could not run away. And she did LOVE the thought of the traitor in glorious agony.

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2/4
Word Count: 800