So let’s back up real quick. Why exactly are you pissed off? Because he called Snowflake your girlfriend? That is the truth… Maybe you’re just quick to anger today. After all, the distinct lack of your beloved locoweed has made you rather agitated recently. Of course, there’s also the fact that all of your warriors are absent and incompetent. There’s the fact that the other Legatus is a moron. There’s the fact that you’re not even sure why you’re in this herd, except for convenience, because nothing really seems to go on. There’s those memories that keep groping at the back of your mind. Clawing, crawling, creeping, cavorting… they want you to acknowledge them. So you guess somewhere in all of that chaos, you managed to just explode all of your feelings out onto Thranduil. You guess even you have to show your feelings from time to time.

Perhaps if you weren’t feeling your emotions so acutely you might have noticed the strange circlet that sits upon the golden’s head. Perhaps you might have noticed the way he whispers and it opens into a massive sheet of armor. So then maybe, just maybe, you might have stopped your idiotic charge; but you didn’t, because you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed on the best of days and this one of the foulest of days- in a way, the armor only makes it worse.

Those memories that are scraping, scratching, and scrambling to be brought to the forefront of your mind gain some ground. This is rather like last winter, when you mauled Snowflake for reminding you of her. Now the golden is reminding you of him. At least you don’t have to remember too long. SLAM. The reason you don’t have to remember, of course, is that you rather suddenly become more bruised than you were five seconds ago. Ramming into him wasn’t a move motivated by self-preservation, but what half-crazed, detoxing addict bothers to think about self-preservation? You certainly haven’t met anyone that fits the bill.

As you canter past your repositioned enemy, you feel two things. First is the thickening and tightening of your chest muscles. The bruising there is swift and sure, pulling at your pectorals and making each extension of your forelimbs just slightly more difficult. The other thing you feel is rushing air as not one but three horns whiz past your hindquarters. Perhaps you’re too swift for the golden. More likely, you’re just lucky. Regardless, your hide is left untouched except for the brief wind that unsettles your fur. Obviously this man is no skilled warrior, you decide. It should make your job of destroying him that much easier.

Can’t he see the blood on your hooves?

You do mean that in the most literal sense. If he were to catch a glimpse of your hooves beneath the slush that you haphazardly careen through, he might notice crimson stains streaking down their walls. The blood of two now walks wherever you walk, their bodies left to rot where you slaughtered them, their souls sunk to hell where you sent them. Thranduil can make three if he wants (or even if he doesn’t)- all he needs to do is stick around. Slowing to a trot, you turn to try and face the intruder again. Eyes searching, you survey his armor, looking for weak spots along the metal. It’s not the most convenient thing to be overlaying your opponent, but you suppose you can make do with what you are given.

Barely a thought is given to your boggart before she sets herself to work. Using her own magic, which she has fallen rather in love with, the boggart tries to move to Thranduil’s right side (as Thranduil’s left side is hopefully the one that is facing you). Picking up a few balls of snow, for there are no rocks to be seen under the alabaster blanket overlaying the earth, she begins flailing them towards Thranduil, trying to distract him from your advancement. All the while, you calculate your approach. Your war-trained mind analyzes the way the armor drapes over your opponent, covers him, caresses him. Even through the haze caused by your rage and forced purification, you can look for weaknesses. As you think you draw near, you prepare yourself and attempt to cause some real damage. Rearing up, you try staying near his flank to avoid his horns, your hooves hoping to assault Thranduil’s unprotected left gaskin. You wish you could try for more destruction but between the snow and your shaky body, you can’t stay in the air for more than a few moments. As you descend back towards the earth, though, your mind is already considering what new tortures it will lay upon the beast.


Words| 794
Post| 2/4