The higher the climb, the harder the fall. Wessex would hate to see Rikyn scramble to the top, only to be foiled by several arrogant feats of bravado and the machismo to forego a safety net. From that vantage point, he might suddenly find a reason to value someone who can haul a lot of dead weight up and down a mountain, catch falling princes, and pack one hell of a punch.

Wessex is the type of woman who works best against adversity; tell her she can’t do something, and watch her work until she’s mastered it. Tell her she’s nothing, and she will rise until she’s made the naysayers change their tune. Rikyn? He’s simply an elitist asshole who needs a couple of painful reminders that might does not make right, that magic does not always defeat physical strength, and that someone will always be watching him. In the mottled mare’s humble opinion, Rikyn showed her his true colors that night, or at the very least, what he is fully and remorselessly capable of; others may not see it because of their history with him or their inherent belief in goodness, but Wessex knows. And if she is the lone watchdog against The Puppeteer, then so be it. Her scrutiny will be ruthless.

So a blossoming savior complex, defiance, and need for revenge mix all together in her steel-cased body, creating a storm of confusing emotions that have but a singular goal: hurt him and win.  

Satisfaction rolls through her body upon contact, a guttural “Ha!” leaping out of her lungs as he takes a dose of her own medicine and she slides half of her horns through his skin. Her shoulder, however, cannot take all the weight from her retaliation and so she stumbles forward - which really only further aides her, as he tries to duck away. Wessex’s dull teeth close around hair and flesh. Swallowing the jolt of sudden pain from her shoulder, she clamps down and yanks back up even as he tries to back away, finding success even in her weakness. If she’s lucky, the pain of her attack will cause Rikyn to seek alternatives to striking out with his horn, but men are so obsessed with their phallic symbols…  any opportunity to wave it in a lady’s face, right?

Dry, summer grass grows slick in some parts from Rikyn’s blood, but the Corporal is thankful there are no rocks or large sticks to avoid, and very few outside factors which might affect her footing (unlike her fight in the sand with Erebos). Just her own bulk and clumsiness to blame. Blood brings tension thick enough to cut with a knife, all childish slurs and banter now unwelcome, cause shit just got serious. The kids just realized they’re playing with real weapons - pieces that hurt and maim and kill, and she wonders if he thought himself so invincible The warrior woman wins first blood, but the battle isn’t over yet.

Having pulled away from Rikyn, and he from her, Wessex’s balance easily shifts towards her hind legs, which is a blessing because her poor right shoulder needs a brief break from bearing weight. Pushing back (mainly with her left foreleg), she hauls herself upright as Rikyn’s horn comes dancing just left of her left elbow, towards her girth. He is quicker than she is; it stings, gilded blade nicking unprotected sensitive flesh just along the bottom edge of her armor, and she hisses sharply through her teeth, though the damage isn’t great. Front hooves fly towards the stallion’s from above, targeting his neck again, an area that’s already been damaged (perhaps in hopes that the crown is so heavy it might just… topple off his pretty little head), or his withers, but doing her best to avoid his bronze armor. Hopefully the pull of gravity would add more force to her strike - against muscle or bone, she does not care which.  

Rikyn darts back again, and when all four hooves are on the ground, the Corporal exhales with a throaty roar as the tries to bound forward on a left lead and use the bulk of her body to bowl him over or knock him off balance, which would provide an opening for another attack. When Wessex moves, her armor rubs against the horizontal laceration, smearing the thin line of blood into the fur around the wound. Despite this discomfort, the leather ultimately protects against his second thrust, which glances off her left shoulder, leaving a long, tan mark against the rich brown material.

She will not make the same mistake as last time - she will not gloat before it is over.