Who was he? This stallion, sculpted of charcoal and obsidian and ebony; the stygian. Was he very experienced? How different, exactly, would things be if this was battle and not a game? Very different, I know. I keep my muscles as relaxed as I can, keep my movements easy, keep my head cool. Inhale and exhale; inhale and exhale, relax. There was a kind of fiery jolt that ran through my legs, starting at my hind hooves as my kick lands heavier than I should've done on the upper of his leg. Once I would have felt pride for landing a blow, even if not on his barrel where I had aimed; now I just feel dull, empty. Is it fighting that has taken a toll on my fierce temper? Or is this, this emptiness, the Sun God's curse? I would laugh, but no; I don't really feel anything.

So. This was fair enough- I had missed his ear, missed the scrapes of flesh, but gotten a solid kick on him. He had bitten my cheek and I buffeted him with my wings. Decent. I come out not too much worse for it and he neither- he remains mostly untouched. My mind is wandering again, a flippant thing, and I shake it, briskly, trying to recall a sense of purpose and need; and in good timing as well.

There was a thunder of hooves as he came charging towards me, all ebony, and for a moment I marvel at the shine of his dark coat that reminds me of necromancy and dead-rising and other such creepy things of magic. Yet his eyes betray his coat, for they are soft and kind, I think, although they may be hardened by concentration in this game.

"Fly, Svetlana, fly! Faster! Beat those wings! DOWN!" It's father, roaring at me, snarling at me, nipping at my legs as I am too slow to get off the ground. I remember him telling me what an important defence skill it is, to be able to hoist yourself off the ground in a matter of minutes. "Always good to be able to fly away to avoid a conversation," He might say with a chuckle when his knees were not stiff with arthritis and his fading-vision eyes working for once. Father was old, certainly, of high-ranking and good servitude, known for his excellent in the field. And that was how he wrangled Mother, as he liked to say, Hanna the Divine. It had come in handy, here and there, and in this field there were no trees to trap my wings. Only this stallion barreling at me.

The grass stirs beneath me as my wings down-stroke, churning the air as I rise off the ground. I can almost hear Father yelling at me, shouting to get up faster. The speed of my wing-beats increase, and the shoulders in my muscle ache as they fill with lactic acid. Faster, faster, I urge myself, and it is by luck, I realize with dismay, not my speed, that I am two feet above his head by the time he arrives below me. For the first time I speak to him, this dark horse-

"Thank you, warrior!" The words are harsh and grating, even more-so than usual, maybe because of the memories dragged up with Father's strict lessons of flying. The day is clear and the sky is blue, begging for me to come and embrace it- so with my shadow cast onto the ever-black horse below me, I take off, higher and higher into this baby-blue day. Soon the wind is carrying me up and above the sun-soaked land below.

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EDIT: COMPLETE

Word Count: 609
Attack: 1/2, 1/1 Defence