Her unusual mane looms in my periphery as her body and mine clash, a cursory wonder as to whether such a mess of feathers itches incessantly crossing my mind as the tip of my blade delves for red gold. Duir’s sympathetic wince rises through our tethered minds, where the lightning-struck buck restlessly waits not a yard away, his verdantly green gaze seeking his next opportunity to be of assistance (to me, or the mare, if he thinks he needs to defend her), while my side of our unusual bond soars with the sensation of success.

Barely grazing her hindquarters with my teeth, a mirthful smirk rises at the comfortable invisibility I temporarily wear, and how it is surely unsettling for the opponent. She counters against her unseen foe with a maneuver which manages to cover a large swath of area, a clever tactic, especially for one who wears no scars; throwing her entire body forward, bloodied shoulder first, I’m forced pull up into a partial rear as I come back around to her, drawn into the cold shallows of the sea as I leap rightwards to avoid her, with a splash. The smell of her freshly spilled blood and the sound of battle rise among the howls of the sea-scented wind, and the additional splashes of my legs breaking the cadence of the frigid tide fill my senses.

Blowing a breath of relief that she’s missed me, the clack of her teeth still ringing in my left ear, all four of my hooves meet the soft sand beneath the frigid, swaying water, swirling about my ankles. Not taking the time to watch her, I let Duir do it for me; no warning rises from our spirit-connection, merely the sensation of sympathy, again, though I haven’t touched her. Wondering, the fuck? as I turn towards her, I don’t dance away, as some might expect. Instead, I drive towards her, my hooves sending droplets of cold water splashing against my belly and chest.

Not wanting to use my blade again, still satisfied with its initial, successful brandishing, I instead move to use my honed strength against hers. A childish eagerness rises within me in the first, cantered step, a yearning to feel the satisfying collision of my muscles forcing something else to give blooming alongside a wonder as to whether or not I can; all my previous attempts to go through an opponent like they were paper, or brittle branches, have resulted in me slamming into a brick wall, disguised beneath the opponent’s skin, and the black tint of my arrogant ignorance. She might be naturally built with the fortitude of a small bear, but, damn it, I’ve trained! If I can’t press my way through one unscarred bird to the shore, I’m not sure what all that pain has given me.

Thrusting my left shoulder forward now, the bronze-toned plate is hopefully slammed into her already maimed right shoulder, or side, my face is set with determination, and the faintest hint of a hopeful smirk. As I bull my way from the ocean, hopefully into her body, I simultaneously reach out with my teeth towards her feathered neck, bracing myself for the insidious sensation of slick, horrible feathers in my mouth if my aim is true, and the bite lands. Having forgot that I have the Time God’s stone stored between the metal and my skin, I’m likely in for a painful surprise of my own, if it does!

Regardless of the assault’s success or failure, I keep moving forward, lunging out of the shallows, the briny water drips from my legs, darkening the sand below with erratic streaks, and blots. My ankles, cold, ache as the sand presses against them, shining beads of silica clinging to the dark curls of my ankle’s curls of coffee black hair, but I try to ignore the unpleasantly clammy, damp, and gritty sensation for the more trying task at hand. Smirking, I taunt the dark dun as I move onto the shore.

"Come on!" I laugh, "you can do better than that!"

Sure, she may not be as skilled as I am, but even a babe can kill, if you don’t expect them to. Besides, like I mentioned on approach, she seems like a tough bitch, even if she might be a bit off in the head, shouting at the sky and all.


2/3 | 731 words