The black horse moves, quickly, molten coat rippling over limber muscle defined in rough-hewn shadow and hard, rugged lines. My feathers rustle, whisper, their displeasure as I soar over him. His haunches are past me as he flashes underneath me, a deep black shadow on sweet green grass, as if, like Deimos, death has come to the herbs, and light has been blotted out from the deep form. Again my feathers do sigh as I twist the appendages back, the heavily lined muscles in my shoulders wrenching back and forth as I balance.

Flight is no easy thing. In fact, it is, indeed, a thing I believe to be more magic than anything, for how could we fly when the winds are strong and the air is damp and humid so we would fall? Magic, it must be; sorcery, deceiving, illusions, necromancy, bewitchment, alchemy, dark arts, wizardry, thaumaturgy; if not for the necessities of it in battle, I would not trust any with the dark nefarious ability of bewitchments and enchantments. Crafting, metal-work, forging, working the bellows, is one thing; maybe even occultism, the strange ability of deciphering the devious future, I may forgive. But magic, magic, even if it grants me the ability to fly, is something I will never trust; not illusions, not trickery, no wind-calling and other voodooism. Never would I quest for such abilities, no longer- it disgusted me, the shadowed arts, the lies of it. It was abhorrent, abominable, impure, repellent, foul, wicked and vile, magic was.

So I desire this to be a true battle, and I do dream this fight, this spar, will be of will and strength and understanding.

I come at him, graceful, supple, exquisite, poised, lissome, comely; each movement is at ease and knowing oneself, with infinite elegance, and my movements are a dance, and I move through the paces like water, muscles fluid, eyes alluring, for there is always the chance a man will fall under the charm of a woman, even in battle, but mostly, the ease comes from my knowledge of myself and my limitations. When I rear, I am water falling from the cleft of a rocky lip, but instead of gravity pulling me down, I am rising up. My wings, my outstretched wings, are soft and gentle, a warm summer's breeze, feathers splayed but yet delicate, kissing his warm body with whispering fingers, just so different as my knee comes smacking the dark prince's whiskered muzzle. As the inky, obfuscous male rises, I withdraw, with still the ease of pouring water, and I am gone just as he pulls away. But not without broad white teeth scraping at my cheek, for when two are so impossibly close, locked together in the dance of war, even if it is a mere little game, it is more than likely to come out with scuffs and chafes. Yet the pain remains minor, for I was dropping to my fores in a hasty retreat as the large stallion had come up to meet me.

He is tall and attractive and broad; I am not short nor large, but my beauty is more than simple, I am like the gods themselves, and I am compact, mostly, while a little on the more lithe side. For a moment, I circle, pace, restless beauty, and then I go onto offensive again.

This time, I come at his face, neck outstretched, ears half-back, lips parted to expose my teeth, aiming for a solid nip behind the ear; and should my teeth graze his hide of ebony, I would try to wrench his head away, to give him that brief moment where the muscles shrill in pain. Maybe a little harsh for a spar, but I am not in the best of moods of late, and can you really blame a sweet girl for the frustrations of her life? Especially one as I. Then I am slipping past him, angling my hindquarters to his flank, hoping for a solid kick to his round barrel. Again, I withdraw, study him imperiously, mutely, and wonder if he would dare to come after me again. I am stretched of late, and if he agrees to lay down his charcoal cranium and admit me as winner, I will be glad to take to the skies, and find a quiet spot to rest, and mourn my losses in peace.

Kri, and the Sun God, think me a proud fool, as do many others, even in my constant defeat wearing on my shoulders. I cannot blame them, but they do not know my story, and one cannot judge without knowing it.

""

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Word Count: 771
Attack: 2/2, 0/1 Defense