Hooves alighted upon the plush green earth as the sun continued to dip - her hooves had struck true where her wing had merely kissed his skin. Blood, bright against the sovereign's ebony chest oozed forth, yet another badge of valor stamped into his scarred skin. As the right side of her rump brushed against the rough grain of tree bark, the ivory serpent took a moment to congratulate herself on landing the first strike. It was not uncommon that the opportunity to land the first blow was bestowed upon the blushed pegasus, but each spar was different in action and intent; Orithia would not deprive herself of credit where it was due.

The smile the curled her lips had changed infinitesimally, growing only enough to display the joyous malevolence that coursed so readily through her veins. She had missed out on the dirt and blood of combat for too long; she had begun to crave the rusted iron scent of animosity and the gritty pull of fur matted with blood. Pupilless eyes flashing with something akin to happiness, Orithia felt herself come alive.

Her victory was short lived, however; the colossal form of her King was bearing down upon her with his obsidian horn lowered. Tembovu's well-muscled legs covered the distance between the pair with ease and the feathered mare felt laughter burst forth from her coral lips. The intimate proximity of their skirmish didn't allow for the pastel woman to dodge the attack and her mind only fumbled for a moment before latching onto the most profitable option available; she relaxed her muscles and raised her left wing to meet the honed point of Tembovu's horn.

Her scream pierced the atmosphere, sending birds bursting from their roosts and forcing the surrounding forest into a horrified silence.

Blood burst forth in a macabre geyser as the giant's horn sliced cleanly through the muscle and sinew near the base of her wing - at least she could credit her liege for keeping his crown sharp. The agony was a piercing, raging thing, alive and greedily lapping at the pastel medusa's consciousness; but she had been here before, walking the razor's edge between fainting from the pain and coming to life beneath the weight of one's own suffering.

She would always choose the latter.

Orithia let loose another wretched shriek as she yanked her wing up and in toward her side, driving the ebony spear further into her limb. The bellow was stained with a battle-drunk fury and even in the face of potential defeat, the thorny damsel remained some sort of beautiful. Her goal was to use Tembovu's own momentum against him, seizing his horn within the ravaged muscle of her left wing and using whatever time she could buy herself to counter the stallion's vicious charge. Adrenaline could do nothing to mask the searing pain that surged through her frame, but the pale serpent didn't need it to; she only needed her attack to land before the blood-plug that was Tembovu's horn was ripped from her.

With a pain-laced battle cry, Orithia arched her neck and aimed her gaping jaws toward her King's lowered head, hoping for her teeth to rip at an ear or gouge out an eye; anything to cause damage, anything to continue in the bloodwashed paradise in which she had found herself.