There is nothing pretty about fighting; ugliness is written in scars and crimson sand, etched on their souls with every decision to strike. Everyone who willingly takes to the battlefield knows this – they understand that on most days it’s nothing personal. It’s an addiction to that rush of adrenaline that is elusive in all other aspects of life. This, too, is Wessex’s truth. Something comes alive in the young warrior once the lines are drawn and the initial thrill settles into a low-grade humming. Why else would they sacrifice their bodies time after time after time, if they didn’t all secretly enjoy both the pain they receive and the pain they inflict?

Both Wessex and Ampere are probably mildly sadistic, living other parts of their lives with nobility and honor in order to make up for the horrors that come with their lifestyle. As long as she can admit this, Wessex feels no shame for who and what she is – the fact is that with a mother like hers, the poor girl never had a chance to be anything else. At least she is physically well-suited for the job, even when others come at her with magic and companions, she can somewhat hold her own. Until now, it seems.

It kills Wessex to be stuck in this humiliating position, utterly at the mercy of someone else in this friendly fight (did Ampere say that in order to get Wessex’s guard down? Trusting in the honor of strangers has gotten the Corporal nowhere thus far – she’ll remember this lesson on definitions of ‘friendly’ for a long time to come), unable to defend against anything. Revenge, however, comes swiftly, and though her thigh muscles feel like a mixed batch of fire and over-exertion cramps all rolled into one, she does not hesitate to return the injury. The feeling of her blades slicing through flesh never gets old, and a sublime sense of calm takes away the frantic edge that marred her concentration from the beginning. Her first mistake fades away and all that’s left is the here and now.

Feathers fall away from Ampere’s wings, floating down to the sand, only to find themselves underneath Wessex’s hooves, which crush and mangle with abandon as the Basiner sputters into strong pinfeathers. The blue and black tips come up and out, whacking the unicorn under the chin – but that sends her jaw up unexpectedly, causing Wessex to bite her own tongue. Eyes squint shut at the surprising jar as the taste of blood overwhelms her palate, a dull pain zinging around her mouth – it’s a good thing they aren’t the chatty warrior types, because that would seriously fuck up the Corporal’s game.

Swallowing pink spit, she looks to her left and the next thing she knows, a bright (sparking?!?) light flies at her face – much too bright to be good for her dusk-adjusted eyes. Temporarily blind and hurting, she throws her head up, tossing it around in order to try and avoid the sharp pinpricks of pain. Her face feels like it’s on fire! Rather than cautiously slowing down, Wessex recklessly seems to speed up, as much as her injured hip will allow, determined to keep the distance between herself and Ampere as minimal as possible – even if she doesn’t know exactly where Ampere is at the moment, she can try to follow the sound of muffled hoofbeats in the sand, or the sound of flapping wings in the otherwise relative silence. Disoriented, she continues on a straight trajectory for a breath or two and then swerves to her left, but as she is unable to see much beyond the multitude of spots that cloud her vision, she is on an erratic path. The sand doesn’t help, flying this way and that beneath her hooves it proves to be an unsteady surface, so she stumbles once or twice. Her body always works against her in this environment, bulk slowed even further as she struggles to maintain both speed and energy. Never again, she thinks. Never again on the fucking sand!

Blinking constantly to try and return her vision to normal, the Corporal finally makes out a vague shape and leaps towards it, trying to use her superior height and weight to either knock it out of the sky, or at the very least, off-balance. An anguished, tired, panting cry of frustration and sudden pain from her hip rends the darkening sky apart, she makes a mad swing at what she thinks is the mare. But the ground is unstable, and her vision is unreliable, so she swings her head in a large arc, hoping that she’ll hit something simply by covering more area.

How quickly the previous calm fades away, only to once again be replaced by a fervent desperation.