There is an emptiness where her hooves lash; and should she not grow sorrowful, for her considerable lacking of ability for domination? Alas, she does not; she blossoms out of rage and fury, passion and anger; she grows with it, becoming taller and larger with every stride, louder with every grunt as she comes to grapple with Seele the Necromancer. She foams, mouth full of poison and acid, and she is rabid and feral with her furor- how dare this runt get better than her? Again, and again, the wolf was downtrodden, subjugated to failure and the ache of loss, the tyrant doomed to never be quite good enough, no matter her attempts. She swells, she trumpets, and yet her efforts fall short of the line she should seek. Damn them- damn them all.

Yet her determination is near-unrivaled; every inadequacy she met with steely resolution, tenacious and dedicated to her crown, her future, and even if she had to work for it- well, she would fucking work for it, and they would rue the day when her inability to arise victorious would play out in her favour, when she learned from her mistakes in battle. Every drop of blood she lost she would repay a thousand times over; she would shred wings from shoulders, horns from heads, and close her foaming mouth over eyes, pluck and caress the delicate faces with her acid lips to watch gelatinous orbs melt and slither over BURNING cheeks.

Knees jerk beneath her form as she wrenches her leg ever-farther, and she lets out a bark of agony, the first and last sound to pull free from the cage of her lips. Confutatis, Queen-killer, Monster of Men, flounders and slithers on the diamond floor, struggling to find footing, avoiding her companion desperately, pillars quivering as she draws herself up. She does feel ill; a sickness writhing in her stomach, choking at her throat, crawling up to her nostrils; for a moment she finds herself longing for an end, but the wolf will NOT allow a doe-eyed clown to come off better than her. Again and again she curses the Seele and her magic, the shoddy footing and the light that glares in her eyes and burns in her retinas, throwing off aim and movement. As she slides, she wrenches the same right knee again as she jerks to face Seele; teeth grit together as tendons scrape unpleasantly, and she lets out a rasping snort.

The woman charges; and the same sickening sensation of earlier occurs.
Her soul, rending from body, peeled away; disorientation and confusion, colors behind her eyes and needles in her skull, scraping and grinding against her brain; her mongrel shrieks out in warning, calls out to his companion as they are bonded and no matter of organic body will get in the way of their cherished companionship. Yet she is thrown, wild, unable to anticipate movements, even as her soul surges back to wicked bodice.

At the last movement she pulls away, her foe's diamond horn glittering in the dismal lighting; and the Skullface snarls, unhinged, as it pierces through knotted sinew and muscle, pain not unlike what she's felt before. Due to her movement, the horn misses the heart- but the organ breaks anyway.

Failure, again; is she close to death? There is blood on her lips, aye, and foam dribbling down her chin; but it is little compared to the gored mess of her shoulder, the pain that seizes her with every stride she takes, seeking respite from the Clown and her nefarious ways. She is finished, done, fucking done with this war; let Seele bow her head, or Confutatis leave unhindered.

It hurts, it hurts and hurts and hurts.
Here she is, bruised and broken, failure and loss, blemish on the names of her forefathers; and there stands her enemy, righteous and proud, scarlet and obsidian.

But one day; one day she would mount Seele as if she were a stallion and put her in her proper place.
She would fuck her right over until she dropped DEAD.

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680/800 words
4/4 + 1/1