There is a child warring inside his head as his body arcs and descends upon Misael, a voice crying in ardent supplication. It cries that war is not his domain, that surely he has seen enough bloodshed on this earth to never want to inflict pain on another person. It reminds him of the past, of peace and love. As Cera's hooves glance off Misael's striped shoulder, he crushes that child within. There is nothing left for him but this, a jack of all trades, a piece on a chessboard to be moved around for the sake of his herd. This is all he has left to conquer, the final piece that will make him important and relevant in the ranks - if he could just defeat this fear. This fear of boundlessness, of snapping and becoming the monster that lurked where the light of Cera's faith could not reach. The darkness that lurked beneath his gentle, patient countenance. Misael was just a faceless foe, a measurement for Cera to place himself against. Nothing personal. 

He lands in a splay of limbs as his hooves glance off Misael's shoulder. A veil of white descends and immediately stings his eyes, forcing him to squint. The slap of the wind and the shroud of darkness keeps Misael from his gaze and his mind works overtime to try and figure out what the hell he's supposed to do now. Legs tense in preparation, fearful and aware of impending retaliation as Cera tries in vain to flick his forelock from his eyes. All he can feel is the sand against his legs from Misael moving, brief glimmering colors of his opponent's hide like snapshots as he tries to pinpoint the dark male's position. He is not skilled or wise, and he knows only that pain will be swift and immediate from all his previous experiences. A punishment for thinking he could do this. So as teeth descend upon him in a flare of noticeable ivory, he freezes, a memory of a glass horn and grinning teeth startling him into stillness like a rabbit. Misael is a giant even against Cera's tall frame, a shadowed beast lunging from the night, and he is a child once again. There is no evasion, no attempt to get away. He has failed. Failed. FAILED. 

Fire burns up his right shoulder as he hears the telltale crunch of bone - no, it's not his shoulder, something is wrong with where the pain is radiating from - and it snaps him from his frozen state with a wounded animal cry. There is no fear to make him hesitate, and instinct takes hold as it did when he was fighting Midas' doppelganger. A last ditch effort to accept his age and bury the child he is. Cera lashes out violently with bared teeth. They seek Misael's right flank just behind his last rib, the soft thin flesh that will give way with ease, too physically short and in too much pain to think through his attack options. The movement yanks his wing and shoulder, a new flame of agony, and Cera retreats just as quickly beneath the crippling blow of it. 

The pain won't stop. It burns, and he wrenches away regardless of how his teeth land, eyes rolling in the darkness as he tries to figure out what has happened. Cera forces his limbs through the sand to the left and away from Misael, trying to get distance to figure out why his entire shoulder - not shoulder what is it it can't be - is on fire. Why his wing is curled limp and injured at his side. Eyes glance down wildly as he dances away, stumbling more than graceful, and there is blood there. Spotting the brilliant white. He can't move it - broken, his brain supplies. Cera has never been flightless. Never felt this tunneling fear before, of having no escape. He panics. 

With a terrible cry he spins in the sand, digging deep to try and find traction. He prays Misael has followed him to continue the fight, but he doesn't stop to check. The panic is overwhelming, a stifling fear that tells him he needs to end this now. A downed bird is a dead bird. 

Cera's no muscular beast like Misael, he could easily be toppled if the stallion so much as charges into his attack, but Cera doesn't know this. Kicks his hind heels to the laughing moon and hopes to find flesh or ward off retaliation with the sting of his bucking legs. Somewhere Ilaria's trying to gather his attention, tell him they are brothers of the sand, that his wing's not lost forever, but he can't hear it past the pounding of blood in his ears. Broken wing. Broken wing. A downed bird is a dead bird.

Words: 800/800
Attack: 2/3