I was flying from the Deep Forest, the red fluid drying upon my barrel, just a small nick, but there nevertheless from Romani's teeth. My wingbeats were relaxed and strong, easy. I knew when I were to fold the black airfoils to my satin sides they would quickly stiffen and become a mass of knots and tangles and pains, but for now, the muscles were well-stretched and at ease with the familiar motions of flying. It was, indeed, so very nice, relaxing in this peaceful day, being at peace. Flying took your mind off everything. There were just simple motions- the flap of your wings, the inhale and exhale, the careful eyes watching out for hidden downdrafts and looking for those lovely thermals that ruffled your feathers and soothed your aches and pains.

But not heartaches and sorrows, no, not that.

So I enjoy my morning of forgetting, just as fights helped you forget and leave worries behind. It was peaceful, blue-skied, the sun warm and reaching the very peak of its ascent, glowing softly and cheerfully. In summer, it would last even longer than now. Summer truly was, perhaps, the best flying days, without the nasty spring rains, filled with welcoming nights that glittered heavily with hundreds of stars, just simply fantastic. Really. There were no other words to describe it.

The reason I heard a voice call out for a spar was because I was flying low, ready to land and begin grazing in solitary quiet. For a moment, I hesitated, considering if I should, perhaps, simply wheel about and leave with two beats of my jet wings, before I figured I may as well fight. In Svikruch, I sparred three or four times a day, regularly- so surely I could deal with one more now in this beautiful noon.

There was a thump, thump, as I back-beat, and dropped from above, aiming towards his haunches. I leaned down, hoping for my teeth to give him a good nip, before gliding past, wings stirring the grass, and with two strokes of my wings, I landed. Still my airfoils were half-roused, my beautiful appendages that I loved fiercely. I could not imagine living without the sky at my back. So I settled silently, ten feet away from him, and sized up my opponent.

Black. Rippling black, like night condensed into a muscular form. Handsome, very clearly masculine, muscles well-defined under that coat of shadows. His mane was soft and long and lush, as was his tail, a trait more distinctly feminine, but at least he fitted it well, this noble-looking boy. At least he is without a horn. As a general rule, horns are fickle things altogether too useful in battle, with that piercing point. In Svikruch, we had armour, armour with head-plates fashioned with stubs and horns and hooded eyes; we had leg-plates and wing-plates, wing-plates tipped with jagged lines of metal ready to cut and slice another out of the sky, and leave them falling to earth. I do not comment on this boy's appearance, nor verbally accept his challenge. Instead, I launch into another attack, leaping forward, rearing up, wings churning the air, more a distraction that a buffet or aim towards him.

It is my legs, my flailing legs half-tucked so he would only be hit with a kneecap unless he suddenly shrunk in size, that would give him a good hit to the head, if it landed upon his ebony cranium.

""

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Word Count: 577
Attack: 1/2, 0/1 Defense