Their children will learn to hope for a Caesar.


The call of war sounds over the serene hills, meshing in the crevices of stone and earth, resounding in my ears and igniting a spark deep down, the fire that, at times, is frightening – a fire that I have begun to think is necessary for a heart like mine to thrive.

I don’t know why he’s decided to come at me like a freight train, two dragons screaming their battle cry into the sky, splitting the peace with their shrill beckoning for blood, though I do know him. The smell of lavender lifts from a nearby grove, as if drawn by the memory of a foolish woman who reeked of the flower, the memory of his wrath, and the snap of the twin lizard teeth in the blood tinted air of the Spark’s stolen wood, an inspiration that moves my hooves beneath me. My heart thuds, hard, erratic against its encasement.

I had not felt fear as I’d met with Volterra, not on this level (more a concern for skill, a respect for his power), this underlying fretfulness as to what lay beneath the volatile stone surface of the boy with the white limbs; despite our differences, the behemoth and I were friends, at least the most tentative of sort, like two surly sportsman smashing chests in the midst of a meet, brilliantly one for a flashing moment before, again, we cheer for another team. This guy, coming towards me… he means business, I’m pretty sure.

I cannot remember his name (Erebos' spirit sighing somewhere at my idiocy), as well as I remember the violence descending on Frenchie, how she thought I would save her, looking at me like some devil for not stepping in to prevent her rightful punishment.

Is this recompense?

Sweeping towards him, his left shoulder revealed in proximity to be not just white in color, but covered in a violent little white sheath, prods sticking out of its surface. The nakedness of my own body is suddenly much more obvious, but it’s no matter – I’ve been training, I’ve practiced. Though my ribs still ache and some of my wounds are only deep-set scabs, I have a chance. That I’ll probably spend the next week moaning over what’s about to happen to me is a high likelihood, regardless, the odds continuing to stack in the favor of this blessed asshole careening towards me.

The shallow snow is treacherous, the gritty powder only doing so much against the hidden patches of ice; I’m lucky so far, each patch shattering with a crunch beneath my weight, but I’ll have to keep my senses on my feet.

It’s too much to think of at once, I think, furrowing my brows and snorting grumpily at the entire situation, bemoaning my adventurous nature, these predicaments I keep finding myself in.

Changing nothing of my usual approach other than aiming for his right side, uncovered, without thorns, my chin tucks in, my backward ears lifted ever so slightly to listen for dragons; unlike my last two forays with the heinous devils, the wind is but a whisper, allowing for a good chance to notice their arrival so long as I bother to pay attention. Still, the hard hammer of my heart doesn’t seem to cease, a distraction, the fire building until we’re within reach of one another’s bodies. Within what I assume to be reach, my horn tip angles for flesh, seeking to rip and tear open his right shoulder, eager to eliminate one of my three opponents from the running as soon as I can; beneath me, my hindquarters pulls down, my right fore lifting ever so slightly for balance. As my head pulls away I draw my rump around counter clockwise, rending twin arcs in the snow, hoping to pull it out of the way of the dark man’s spiraled skewer, knowing all too well how bad blades can hurt.

In fluid motion, from the first attempted strike to the pivot, I lead into a second strike with my horn, a hope to draw blood along his right side or shoulder; I’ll increase my chances to hurt him by increasing my attempts to lay him open, timing my hooves to the staccato of my heart.

1/3 | 697 words
[ OOC: Definitely! I'm always up for improvement. :) ]