His chest slams into her shoulder, causing a small grunt to leave him as the wind is pushed from his lungs. He succeeds in knocking her to her knees, although his bite fails to land. It is always satisfying to see a woman kneeling before him, as though worshipping at the altar of his raw testosterone and masculinity. The leviathan stands tall, drawing himself up to his full, titanic height as he looks down upon her, feeling the familiar lurch in his loins at the sight of her crawling to her feet again. He doesn't attack even whilst she's prone; his honour forbids it. Instead he just enjoys the sight, his eyes glowing with a thin sheen of lust that he makes no attempt to hide.

It's at this point that he notices the impressive array of horns she possesses. Heavens, he almost loses count of them, and decides that he would not like to be skewered by them. "A fine arsenal you have there," he remarks, his gruff voice impressed. Her comment draws a loud, joyous guffaw from him - ah, he likes this one! She's sharp, her wit honed like a knife and her body, whilst not the ideal build for a warrior, shows clear signs of battle. This is a woman bettering herself, a woman unwilling to bow to what nature gave her. Volterra has always considered himself quite fortunate that the genetic dice rolled in his favour, giving him great bulk, strength, and the basis to become the warlord that he now is. He's fought hard to improve upon that, but it seems that this hybrid mare has had to start her journey from a far lower point than he did, and she receives some respect in his eyes for that.

That doesn't mean he's going to allow her comment to go unchallenged, though. He grins, a wolf's smirk, a devil's smile. "A shame, because I do not follow." The tobiano is up, then, swinging around towards his left side. The behemoth turns, wanting to keep her in front of him where she's at the mercy of his savage hooves and teeth, but alas, he is too slow. Her horns - all seven of them, count them, seven - stab hard into his left ribcage, sinking easily through the skin and carving deep into the muscle below. Any deeper and they'd scrape bone; as it is, the stallion cannot help but roar as he feels himself carved apart by the mare's fearsome weaponry. The worst cut is caused by her primary face-horn, the wound dangerously deep and acutely painful. Volterra swings his hindquarters to his right, peeling himself off her horns like a corpse pulled from a sword, and the blood that tumbles down his sweaty skin causes the grass underfoot to turn crimson.

If the Indomitable could go pale, he would. He feels weak, his stamina sapped further by the crippling wounds to his side, and he laments his own stupidity for allowing her to take essentially a free shot at him. This injury will compromise his movement for the rest of the fight, and that's less than ideal given the already challenging conditions. The beast retaliates as fast as he can; his jaws swing to his left, careful to move only his head and neck rather than the rest of his aching, bleeding bulk. He aims for the left side of the mare's neck, hoping to plant a hard bite onto the muscle there and hopefully cause her movements to be affected too.

Now his body is damaged, Volterra is left with little choice but to utilise his magic. He rarely does so; almost all of his fights have been won due to the strength of his physical form alone, unaided by his dragons or his magic. This, though....this is different. He tells himself that he needs practice at using his supernatural gifts, but in truth he just doesn't want to lose. Not with how much he's invested in becoming the greatest warrior to walk the earth, not when he's so proud of his record, the long list of notches in his battlefield bedpost. He can't slip now, can't see himself felled by a small woman and her quite unnecessary array of horns. No, despite his sense of honour and chivalry, Volterra wants to win. That will be a lot easier if he uses his powers, so he reaches into the depths of his mind and summons them.

He seeks to lift the earth beneath Weaver's front right hoof, trying to jerk it up into a knee-high plateau of rock and stone. His aim is simple - to unbalance the mare by forcing her right foreleg upwards, and to hopefully cause her to grow distracted and give his bite to her left side more chance of hitting.

_____________

Spar for @Weaver !

Set in the Thistle Meadow. Very hot and dry, possibility of fire ;D

2/3 - 799 words