WE WERE STRONG.
we stayed bright as lightning. we sang loud as thunder.
we moved ever forward.</style>
The build up of waiting before the battle is always a let down. After the rush of words from my mouth, I stand alone in this frigid land, finding the blood in my veins cooling despite the boiling sensation in my mind. I am reminded of the chill of the Orangemoon mornings, especially up north, as fog drifts from my nostrils. I take steady breaths, body tensed and alert, blue eyes scanning the directions while my ears flicker, waiting, listening. I let out a snort of frustration, finding that Psyche's fat ass is taking time to travel I did not want wasted, only to see her prim figure rise from the depths of the mountain shielded land, all of the anxious energy in my limbs building up until I felt too tightly wound. Her presence became a temporary shield against my forward movement, words that fall upon deaf ears spilling from her forked tongue and poisoned lips.

I spit forward, a projectile of my own saliva hurtling toward her before my words attempt to cut through her own statements. "Lying thief," I say, my voice deadly low and masculine, especially when compared to the feminine stroke of her own voice.

The power of her presence nor her words could no longer contain the energy pumping through my body, and as I draw a breath through my lungs, my legs push forward off my hind end, plummeting forward and beginning to eat up the distance between us before the stupid bitch even stops blabbering. I had heard enough of her poisoned words for my life time. Before her lithe and tall body even begins to move forward, my strides have begun, our gap closing. The ring of battle in my ears come as the reverberations of my own beating heart in my chest. I draw forward, running slightly right to come about Psyche's left side, seeing her neck curl as my hooves tear into the hard earth.

I knew all too well that horns were but swords magically fused to the head of otherwise normal equines. I had witnessed during the invasion of the Edge the horrible wounds they could induce. I am not nearly foolish enough to allow Psyche to spear me so easily in the shoulder and risk my ability to fly. Surely, Onni would be able to artfully fix whatever damage, but I would not risk my ability to fly just to aid the growing ego of this psychotic bitch.

To escape my fate, I throw my front end heavily to the right and down, quickly redistributing my weight moments before our shoulders would have passed, my back end being lifted up and left. I swing my hooves violently out toward the down-turned head of Psyche seeking to tear into my flesh, aiming for a solid kick about her left ear or upper neck. Her horn swings through open air, robbed of the target she sought by my swift movements, though she may be able to tear minor cuts on my legs or my hip should my aim be true. Flaring my wings out as I buck to aid in the maintenance of my balance with the sudden tossing of my figure in unfamiliar terrain, as well as to keep them clear of the spear on Psyche's head, I attempt to smack my large chocolate left wing down along the top her ass quickly before drawing it back up and hopefully out of the way of vengeful hooves, a powerful slap, as if I were a man grabbing at a nice piece of flesh.

Psyche's likely nothing but a common tramp anyway; she won't mind my advances, even if I am just a stupid featherbrain in her eyes.
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[ WC: 639; 1/4; 0/2. ]