For a moment you are able to forget about the shakes that plague you, the pain that makes your vision poor even without the darkness, and the glare of the moon that worsens your headache. You are able to forget you are ‘Oxy, recovering addict’ and see yourself as ‘Oxy, fearful warrior, noble defender of Snowflake.’ Of course, you’re not really noble so much as an underhanded bastard since you’ve sent your minion out to do half of your dirty work. Still, sometimes assholes like the golden need a good sucker punch from time to time to set them straight.

Luckily, your cowardly plan works, the distraction providing you enough time to assault his gaskin. Eagerly, almost hopefully, your eyes search for blood. It’s one of your ticks- addictions, even. To spill the blood of your enemy is to spill his life force. It is to spill his heart and soul upon the ground. The blood fades but the ground never forgets. Grasses and trees grow from the organic material, making new life out of death. It’s all rather circular, a wheel of life that you’re an essential part of, and you hope to continue here. Unfortunately you see no blood, but you don’t get upset yet. There’s many more beatings to pass out and you’re happy with what you’ve done so far. In fact, you’re in such a good mood that you even dare to pay your companion a compliment.

Perhaps you should have skipped that last part, though. It’s so rare that your companion hears positive words from you that her emotions are almost overwhelming. Her joy mixes with your rage, her elation mixes with your abhorrence, and the resulting concoction of emotion is so overpowering that your single-minded brain is distracted. Your hooves land back in the snow but you can barely keep your stance upright as they slide in the slush. Panic is added to the already chaotic melting pot that is your brain and you have a hard time focusing on anything. The result is a series of poorly executed, poorly planned maneuvers.

Barely managing to gather your hooves beneath you before the golden turns to lunge your way, you’re caught in an instant of indecision. Your brain demands to be allowed to berate your companion, blame her for your slipping, and teach her to never dare to show such excitement again. Concurrently, your body begs for movement, to evade the menacing trio of horns that are turning your way. In the end, the deadlock between brain and body cannot be reconciled and you end up doing a little bit of both.

Reprimanding your companion just seconds after complimenting her, you simultaneously and haphazardly lunge forward and to your right. Unfortunately, a job done with only 50% focus leaves you wanting for better results. You had dreamed of spilling his blood but it is yours that first dots the field as two of his horns scrape across your left side. It is a wonder the horns do not cut to your very bone, considering how skinny you are, but your body does not care if your bone is exposed or not. Skin and muscle scream at the daggers that assault them, your lungs giving voice to their silent cries. They seem to drag across your flesh forever, though the injury in reality is only a pair of open lines about a foot long. Blood flows freely from the wounds at first, coagulating in the cold more quickly than it would in the heat. Still, the slush turns crimson beneath your body, a twisted sort of snow cone left for an unlucky animal to ingest.

Without thinking too much about it, your hazy mind forgetting that Thranduil has armor almost as quickly as you first realized he had it, you lunge forward another step and then prepare to buck out. At the same time, your boggart is also spurred into motion, driven by her previous failure and hoping to once again hear complements instead of criticism. She tries to move in front of Thranduil’s face, morphing for a second or two into the nightmares he dreams of in his sleep, to prevent him from running forward. All the while, your muscles are bunching, your side screeching to stop this movement. You ignore their cries. More ready for the slippery footing this time, you dig your front hooves into the frozen ground and lift your hind end. The metal shoes on your rear hooves glint in the moonlight while kicking out, aiming for Thranduil’s left side if he has not moved out of range. Even without his armor, this maneuver would not likely spill blood, but you are willing to accept that shortcoming for the moment. Pain first- there is time yet for his blood.


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