Their children will learn to hope for a Caesar.
Running to meet one another, I can’t help but wonder if he hits as hard as his big size lets on. I wonder because the sight of his golden’s fire eating at the blanket of white as we clamor into an embrace inspires a small trickle of primal fear, the shimmering silver white of the other camouflaged on the remaining white.

The white probably knows, just as her master, that she’ll be hard to spot.

Part of me wonders if the golden one doesn’t melt the snow to keep my eyes on her shining prowess, distracted from the approach of the horned behemoth, or her snowy sister. My ears strain to catch the whisper of wind cast from the sides of a descending dragon as our hoof beats meet in a staccato song, my gold tipped horn reaching to bite into his flesh in a clean, bloody line. We both stall our charge as we meet, breaths glistening in winter sunlight, and the metallic smell of blood breaks over the chill; as I come back around to begin my second barrage, I find his hind hoofs rising up towards my face (well that’s not a shoulder), propelled with an impressive amount of force.

My aureate gaze is wide: half is fear for my handsome looks, and half is surprise at this guy’s bravado. He takes a couple good pokes to his leg and ankle for the attempt, but it’s violently effective; alongside me, from a distance, I hear the screams of his draconic bitches. I think I know what that means.

What do I do? is a useless thing bounding through my head, an echo that keeps sounding as I move to avoid the dragons. I can’t escape the buck, but I can sure as hell try to make those dragons slam into each other’s faces. I bound upwards just in time to get my chin out of the way, my body angled so that I am almost a floating serpentine, my horn tip still dangerously within reach of his roundhouse. I keep my right side away from him, afraid for the fragile state of those ribs, and sacrifice instead the left.

Both of his blunt weapons drive into my shoulder, kicking me much farther to the right than I had thought would happen. Even worse is when a staggering pain races up my left hind leg; it refused to follow the rest of me, as if it is ensnared in something. Something with thorns, that doesn’t allow me to use my speed to get out of the open (a good plan, at last!).

That plan shatters, and the dragons are still coming. I assume its some devilish earth magic again without even looking to make sure, and give up the notion that I’m moving anywhere at this moment. Instead, I reach out with my mind spark, hoping to turn the charge of his dragons against him as he begins to come back around at me (I assume to slam that titanic body of his into my painfully bruised shoulder – I would, if I were him).

I want the gold. I see her swiftly, like a sun against the white washed world of Frostfall, and out I fly, my body left behind to deal with whatever happens. Me, I’m flying, I’m the crackle of a Spark leaping with aspirations to become a dragon. If I can wrestle her will from her for even just a few seconds, I can use her fire against her master. She’s the faster and stronger of the two, if Volterra’s golden dragon is a good reference.

Regardless, I’m thrown back into my physical form as I always am within seconds. The ice of the white wyvern’s breath has frozen the vines in the meantime, and they shatter when I bid my legs to move; blessedly, the gold’s flame has singed my hair, but mostly missed. My left hind leg doesn’t want to move, it’s too cold and sore, so I tuck it up as I escape, my back end almost hopping rightwards, muzzle tucking tight to my chest. I narrowly avoid what I will call a battering ram, the dark figure of the unicorn a freight train to my left.

Hoping to use this angle to my advantage, I jab quickly to the left with my horn, aiming for nothing in particular but hopeful that his charge will lead him into its striking range. As I pull away from the jab, I dart to the right, my bruised shoulder threatening to buckle, my superior speed dampened by my stiff and sore hind, attempting to make it some six yards to a grove, where his dragons will be hampered by trees, and his size may force him to rethink some of his usual tactics.

2/3 : 798 words