A heartbeat passes, then another and the crushing physical blow of the young stallion’s body colliding with his own never comes. The protective curl of his neck loosens as he dares to open one eye and peek out at his adversary, still charging forward in a flurry of agitation and anger, but as he watches the black and gold’s furious stride slackens, just for an instant, before he plunges on.

Confusion slides across the elder’s face, creasing around his eyes and nostrils. One ear makes a tentative quarter turn away from the safety of his neck, warily questioning, before the immobilizing jolt of an unseen reply launches through his body.

He feels the magic land and break over his hindquarters first, like a wave crashing onto the rocky shores of the Edge, but silent and intangible. It overwhelms and saturates him like a deluge, but the sensation is electric. His mind recoils, loosing a flood of neurotransmitters across his nerve endings in an instinctual flurry of self-preservative motion, but their corresponding receptors lay unresponsive. His front legs scramble uselessly, desperate to move away while his hips and hocks slump beneath him, deaf and dumb to his wants, but far from numb.

Invisible tendril-like fingers slip between the layers of skin and fat in his rear half to grip and painfully clench the fibers of muscle and tendon, flexing and retracting his loins, thighs, and buttocks well beyond the range of motion they would normally exhibit. He gasps, open mouthed, the wrenching pain of tissues being stretched, torn, and joints pulled into hyper flexion too jarring to leave breath for complaint.

He squats there, helpless, reminiscent of a wormy dog dragging its ass around on the ground, until finally the magic rescinds. “What have you done, you little shit?!” He hisses hysterically, hindquarters wobbling drunken and sluggish but blessedly obedient behind him. “Ten years your senior not enough of a handicap?” His earlier insults were piercing, yes, barbed as everything that exits his mouth, but now he’s invested, now he cares what havoc his words will wreak.

“You’re a coward, shit-bag. An impotent, ugly slug masquerading as a man. You think that gold makes you pretty? It’s sour, rancid piss splashed over your hide from the whore who birthed you, no doubt let loose when she saw your grotesque, ball-less, abomination of a body. She probably dropped you on your empty, lopsided head in her haste to escape the projective vomit your face summons up.”

Truthfully he knows nothing of the stallion’s heritage or the circumstances of his birth, let alone the sexual habits of his mother, but the old man’s tirade is heedless, words jumping off the precipice of his pursed lips with a vehemence rarely matched.

“You think magic makes you a man? A warrior? Well slap a banner across my back ‘cause I’ve got a little gift from Father Sparky too.” He’s inexperienced, only having used his magic once before and by accident at that, but he’s spent more than a few of his sleepless nights contemplating that day in the Heart Caves and he’s certain now of the implications he only suspected then.

Inhaling deeply, he sets his slender shoulders and pins his ears flat to the back of his skull. He quiets, consciously curbing the wild energy of his anger and resentment into a single, focused spear of intent, staring so harshly at the other stallion’s charging form that everything else in his field of vision seems to blur, deemed unimportant and ultimately ignored.

That first time with Rexanna and Ezital he hadn’t purposely cast his magic and had been surprised by the toll it took on his body, but this time is different. Now he watches, plans, waits for the challenger to close and nearly be upon him before shoving abruptly outward with his supernatural volition. He doesn’t know the full extent of his own power, but he’s seen enough to grasp the gist of it and hopes to catch his rival full on and full force, the nature of his ability twisting and reversing the stallion’s own feelings so that he either halts his attack, possibly causing harm to himself in the effort to pull up so short, or abandons the charge and dodges to one side of his intended target, leaving himself open for another attack.

The black has no way of knowing which option his younger rival will take or even if his scarcely tested magic will work at all, but he takes the chance and stiffly wheels around his battered hindquarters to toss an uncomfortable, embarrassingly lackluster double-barreled kick at the narcissistic fuckers gilded face or whatever part of him happens to be near, though he sincerely hopes it's his face.


@Rikyn
1/3 + 0/1
790 words

Damage: Takes it up the asssssss from Rikyn. xD Just kidding, but his magic hits hard and incapacitates Alby from the flanks back causing loss of bodily control and severe muscle cramping. He’ll be stiff, slower, and weaker for the rest of the battle and sore and gimpy for quite a while afterwards. (More so than his usual that is.)

Attack: Used LightxSpark | Ability to stimulate pleasure centers of brain inducing attraction/affection. Lasts 1 post in battle; recipient must be within 10m radius. Then spins around to kick out (feebly) at Rikyn with both hind legs.