Själ

She misses.

Gods curse it, how did she manage to miss?  It isn't as though this is some twig-thing colt - this is a behemoth of a creature, a towering centurion who, in retrospect, she ought not have challenged with a sultry smile and a well-placed kick.  But even with his clearly superior skill, her horn shouldn't have simply bypassed his shoulder, not when it was such a large target!  Humiliation launches itself into her belly, claws its way up her throat.  Her mouth presses into a thin line.  She refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassment - she is Psyche the DarkEmpress's daughter, damn it all!  She will be stronger than that!

Just as she thinks that it couldn't possibly get any worse, her forelegs pound into the sand.  No matter how soft and slick the surface, the jarring of her aching tendons has her gritting her teeth, blinking against the sudden angry tears that well into her eyes.  Why, oh why, did she have to pick this place and this stallion to test her budding battle abilities against?  No doubt he was mocking her, silently smirking at her lack of coordination and her clearly inexperienced flailing.  Her mother was likely rolling over in her grave!  Why was I given such an idiot as a daughter? Psyche would no doubt be wailing.  Oh, how are you going to defend the throne like that? she would lament.  Wait, never mind, you're never going to win it in the first place!

By the time the girl realizes that the massive steed is surging forward, it is far too late to move.  Instead, her hind legs coil as she prepares to do the only thing that she can do - leap to meet him.  As stupid as it is (she cannot possibly best him in a battle of strength alone), she cannot help but think that perhaps she will at least prove her mettle.  Besides, lunging forward with a snap of her hind legs is quite a bit less painful than trying to dodge out of the way and land on her pain-filled front tendons.

His chest is wide, the muscles rippling beneath his skin hard as they meet, two dark bodies grappling for control over the other.  The impact as they meet knocks the breath out of the princess, and she wheezes as she throws her head up in a sad attempt to bite at her opponent's head or neck.  She is knocked backward, yelping in spite of herself as the stallion gets in a sound kick beneath her right knee.  She is not a fool; she knows that he could have broken her leg if he'd wanted to.  No, he wanted to hurt her simply to show he could, and it is that, more than anything, that has the girl rallying in her fury.

Her landing is awkward and painful, and she limps heavily on her right foreleg as she backs a few steps in an attempt to get out of his range.  A new surge of adrenaline cuts through her panting and her shaking limbs, lending a murderous sort of fury to her amber gaze.  Later she would see this for what it was:  a spar in which she was soundly thrashed.  Right now, though, she sees only a stallion who she would cheerfully murder in a frigid act of revenge.

She hopes that she is moving fast enough (though, truth be told, her forelegs hurt too much to be nearly as quick as she would normally be) as she tucks her rump, her hind legs coiling again in preparation to spring forward.  Her leap is haphazard at best, her chin tucking towards her neck in a wobbly attempt to spear the bastard through the heart (that is, if he's even still in front of her) for all the pain he has caused her.  If she's fast enough, then her opponent is still facing her, and she will manage to slice into the tender flesh of his chest.  If she's really lucky, she'll cut right through the muscles and tendons, miss the bones, and stab him right in his tiny, black heart.

"Speak."
--Ansgar.--

Word Count :: 693
Attack :: 3/3

@Volterra