She pins him like a mouse, and though her head swims with the black and white, crackling reality of her concussion as she swings her blade at her prey, she drives forth with her intentions clear: to maim. Even when he escapes her through some irrational means, she does not slow her assault, merely staggering about in maddened outrage towards the chaotic sound of his attempts to flee her assault; she drinks in his frightened peeps and howls with delight as she again closes upon him, despite the grimaces of pain which occasionally strike her elated grins from her face.
The sound of his hooves upon the loam will betray him as they did before if he again slips away by some magical means, as do the heaves of his heavy breaths of fear rattling upon the air over her giggles, and gasps of pain. The witch narrowly misses cleaving his stupid weapon from his leg, her teeth gritting down roughly with an audible groan as they press upon one another, all the tighter the more times she sweeps her blade through empty air. All the while, the man has fled her, like a rabbit, his peeps and terror a heady drink on which she sups; for that alone she remains on her hooves, the battle rush of adrenaline which keeps the bleak sweep of unconsciousness at bay.
Suddenly, however, the rabbit becomes a ram, his horns suddenly projected with force into her left breast, nearly upon her shoulder; the unexpected force is punishing to the always delusional and slightly concussed mare, who feels her hindquarters buckle beneath her as her fore gives way. She had grown quite comfortable in the assumption that, though luck had served the smaller man, she was the hunter still on this field, and, as he slams into her with his wings unfurled, she feels that belief shudder slightly.
Staggering backwards under the impact with a whinny of surprise, Beloved gouges downwards with her horn towards the man’s ass, back, shoulders, and wings, and tries to tuck her front legs up in a partial rear to lean into and over him, so he can’t topple her over; where ever she can land a blow, she will strive to draw blood, her numerous strikes coming only when her hooves allow her enough purchase to swing her head. Otherwise, the back of her ankles drag roughly across the earth and her hooves dance for purchase as she is pushed back, and her chest and shoulder swiftly ache with a sizeable bruise; most notable, however, is the sudden, secondary impact of the tree against her right haunch, as she is forced back by the hobbit’s charge.
Pinned, but not forfeiting, the rough bark digs into her pale flesh and rubs her skin raw in moments where it initial contused; with a squeal of rage, the woman drops down slightly as the force of the pony’s assault lessens, her hindquarters bundling for strength. Slamming one of her fore-hooves down at the last moment to release the power of the Shuddering Earth which had resided within her, seemingly since the fight with bear, the woman wastes none of her time, the hobbit’s balance hopefully thwarted by the trembling ground, born around the focal point of her downwards stamp. With a roaring growl which swallows her feminine sounds of doubt and pain, Beloved suddenly surges forward, aiming to bull her own way through the smaller man, as he had just done to her.
Kicking down as she does so with her fore legs, mostly to keep him beneath her and away as she flees the proximity of the confining oak, she concludes the bound with an outward thrust of her hind-hooves. A mistake, which forces her black blood to swim in her head, drawing the sparkling realm of nothing into her vision until it almost consumes her mind, and forces her to succumb. With a lackluster crumpling her body regains footing with the earth, a fierce snort blasting from her nostrils as she staggers away from the pony, her head bowed in an attempt to not feint from the terrible pounding in her literally (and metaphorically, of course) fractured head.
From the throes of the dark which beckons, she begins to regain herself, but not enough so to turn about with the speed she had at the beginning of this bloodletting. Instead, her giggles again rise over her pained panting.
"All that is yours, will be ours," she hisses and cackles as she at last begins to slowly turn back about, her gaze leading her figure, at first twisting behind her with a wild-eyed grin, the black of her cross apparent in the woodland light on her pale cheek as she turns, "in time, if not now."
3/3 | 794 words
Uses her rank magic, War Stomp.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
