If one could imagine the visual image of magic being roused from a soul. Would they see a low burning flame, smothering in a bed of white coal? Or maybe a trickle of clear water that would swell as our streams do, when Birdsong thaws snow on yon mountain caps. I imagine in my minds eye, silver spools housing living light as its yarn. Magic as living threads, spun and unwound by our soul. Using the strength of will to complete a desired action. My desire is this storm, and tis dancing, simmering. I concentrate on Neve's snowy feathers and her smile. A delightful grin that is mostly unseen; yar, who can say if an avian is scowling, brooding or grinning unless you'd seen inside their mind.

Though, there is zero doubt to what mood she is in when you catch wind of that sweet, childish melody breaking the cool night air. Her notes emerge as a second balm that softens my sorrow. Tis enough to lure the faintest hints of a smile from this tight line that has held firm across my muzzle. This friend of snow dips her wings low, allowing the tips of those pinions to brush an icy pool of gathered liquid that is off to my left. The motion sends an array of frozen droplets in her wake. Neve rises on a cool thermal and glides back into heaven. The sandstorm condenses, scattering into small shapes that take on the likeness of feathers. These lifelike creations dance in the moonlight, shining a faint glided hue, the mark of gold.

Because the main portion of my concentration is otherwise occupied. I didn't at first take notice of a certain Sleuth who is hidden just beyond the timberline with her wolf. I didn't become aware until she calls out. Unintentional my flesh startles, her words send an unwelcome chill down my spine. Confused, and suddenly apprehensive, I slowly turn toward the mares direction. Frowning.

As Neve lands on an overhead branch to observe, sand falls innocently back from whence it'd sprung. The lady starts to push past those trees entering the clearing, "To what.." words are never allowed to finish before she darts across the way, toward a recognizable purpose that sends me into a momentary stupor. What?!

Bewilderment sends my flesh shying toward retreat. I sidestep and turn left, disbelief makes my jaw momentarily slack as her massive bulk rises to cloak me in a formidable shadow. I'm painfully aware the right side of my body is exposed. With no time to spare and precious seconds already lost, I sharply swing my head left, purposely keeping out of range from those flailing daggers that are now swinging with every intention to wound. My numb expression falls away and unsure rage takes hold. A savage rumble escapes into the air, my ears are pressed so far into the back of this skull it hurts from the strain. 'What was the meaning of this?!' Yar, I wanted to scream at this crazy mare, demand an explanation; but my jaw is no longer just hanging open, molars are clinched hard together. Every fiber of my being is braced.

Her forefeet collide with my shoulder, one foot sinks past the fur and slides into flesh, it leaves a rich cut that is around four or five inches in length and nearly an inch deep. An angry snarl turns to a roar of pain as the fever of heat washes to that seared section of my body. Blood begins to trickle beneath the dark fur. One dark buckled knee hits just below my shoulder; by some miracle it avoids the fresh cut. Instead, it lands a solid blow against the plated steel around my neck. The sheer force of her weight sends me scrambling a step to the left. Urgently, I plant my weight deep into the ground to regain balance.

There is no thought of remorse, or urge to hold back; I retort out of anger. Coal lips slide, revealing pink gums and yellow teeth, a gush of saliva rushes to my mouth. There are tendons which connect the shoulder to my neck, with effort I push through the pain and snake right. That throbbing hurt makes my shoulder resist and seem sluggish to follows orders. Crown rises high, seeking to dig my teeth into the roots of her black mane, or the right side of her neck. Leaning my weight left; my right hindfoot slides up in a halfkick, aiming to strike her left hindcannon or knee with enough punishment to end this fight swiftly. Sand rises. Shapes begin to form, three small arrow objects. They take hopeful aim for her left, I send them flying with hopes of striking into the thickness of her barrel.

Words: 798
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@[Essetia]