"One Day, I Shall Live By the Code of Honor."
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Laila’s ears rang with the claxon siren of her boiling blood; her body moved and charged, and yet the ebony acolyte was breathless with the surge of her own fury. The whirl of panic and indecisiveness was lost in this siren in her mind; it was a call to battle, the first call that Laila had ever experienced in her life. The facepaint of her opponent caused such a savagery in the acolyte’s veins; the vivid red stood proud against the subtle mists, a defiance that screamed its presence and its conquest for destruction. Laila might’ve missed the mighty warrior all together, cloaked as she was in the velveteen fog all around her—she was a ghost, an apparition that could’ve slipped Laila’s notice so easily, but this blood red V denied that. Laila would not allow victory; she would not let her pass.
Wildly spinning thoughts are no place on a battlefield. A well-trained warrior keeps their mind whole and purposeful, clear of any distraction—but Laila was not a full-fledged warrior. Her mind raced so fast her eyes began to throb, and the closer she got to the mare, the faster her mind twirled until she became a ball of confusion. Should I stop? Should I keep running passed? No, I said she wouldn’t pass me! I could slow myself before I get too close to her—could I rear and throw my hooves at her? But what about her horn? How could I get near enough without the horn touching me? What if I—
The filly’s mind was too jumbled for her movements to be precise, and when her opponent easily moved away from Laila’s onslaught, it was a clumsy, half-considered ploy when the acolyte attempted to slow her charge and keep parallel with her opponent. What she was going to do at that point, Laila was unsure—but it seemed important that she kept as close to the invader as she could. As fate would have it, the ground was laden with morning dew, and the sun was nowhere to be found to burn it; the young acolyte’s hooves found no traction and she slipped forward some feet, unable to stop. It was just as well; the horn that thirsted for blood pierced below the point of the filly’s right hip, grazing her skin as the acolyte sailed passed, tracing a line to an area below her dock that beaded crimson droplets. It was in Laila’s favor that she didn’t stop as fast as she wanted to, for the horn’s aim was true, and would’ve traveled deeper into the muscle and cause major damage—but as it was, it was a mere surface wound, and the use of Laila’s leg remained. She cried out, however; the pain and fear of her injury and her opponent left her maw in a sickening scream that left her throat raw and the bells in her mind ringing louder than ever.
The filly stopped thinking after that.
What came next was a shroud of clarity, a pinpoint of precision in Laila’s perspective. Her panic was still there, as well as her blind rage, but it was cloaked with a chilling calm that settled over the acolyte’s shoulders, dousing the flames of chaos and allowing the filly to know what she must do.
Laila did stop, the horn having just released its blood-thirsty tip from her skin; Laila wasted no time and sent an two aimless, lightening kicks for the warrior’s face, her neck, her chest—whatever she could reach. With every movement, pain exploded underneath Laila’s skin, and her right hind leg burned with the furious movements she forced it to make. What was more pressing to Laila, though, was that she couldn’t see her opponent; the large white invader had shifted away from her view, and her attacks were blind. That must change.
Pivoting on her right foreleg, Laila swiveled her hind regions to the left, backing away from her opponent as she did so. It was not a retreat; Laila only wanted to get her bearings together, to be able to see the monolith the the biting horn on her brow, and the rose-madder V that proved to be Laila’s calling to battle. The chilling air washed over her wound, which had begun to bleed rather fiercely with Laila’s furious movements; she could feel drops of blood tracing through the fur of her leg, travelling downwards to become caught in her feathering. She grit her teeth against the pain, knowing there would be more, and knowing her wanted her opponent to experience it as well.
[W/C: 799
2/4]
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[O] No dawn, no day [Judge] [INVASION]
