What anger burns in her heart, a hunger to hurt him. Andromeda is not vicious and cruel, wild and wicked; but something she does not know has scalded her heart, urging her forwards, demanding her to battle to her last breath for the sake of her sweet family, even as the Edge of the World fought their own war. If only Midas had not sent aid... but, he did what was right at the time. It is not his fault the Throat was not being invaded- invaded!- at the time.

Her hooves rake down his right shoulder and barrel, emitting a snarl of pleasure from her. It surprises her, the rage in her voice, and she wonders apprehensively if always she had this raw brutality inside her, so unlike her quiet self. She loves it, rejoices as her hooves scrape on hard muscle and the salt on her lips as she draws blood from his thin-furred cheek.

Then in a flurry of wings she is stumbling most ungracefully into a clumsy landing, balanced too heavily on her right side, left wing closing to her flank awkwardly to avoid the stallion, while her right gives one last miserable beat to try to keep her balance. Twisting ungainly, her head reeling from the hardness of the sand on her hooves, the strain on her slim legs, as she tries to keep Deimos in sight. Where has he gone?! The sergeant cannot see the Basiner's silver form against the black night. Then he hits her, ramming into her side so hard she's sent airborne, falling with an audible thump onto her right side. Luckily, this toppling of Andromeda is what lets the horn jab miss entirely. Yet something she learned as a child, just a hatchling learning to fly, returns to her. Roll, and you will not be badly hurt- bruises instead of broken bones. Roll she does, away from him, in a tangle of long legs and huge wings, sand in her mouth and gritty on her skin, every muscle moaning in protest. One roll she does, then two, and then she gets to her hooves, dust pouring off her flanks like water. No time to shake, get rid of the sand in her ears and eyes and wings; she bugles her battle cry, a clarion declarance that she will not give way.

The breath is short in her lungs, and she aches with a ferocity she has never had. When she fell, the wind was knocked out of her, leaving her weak about the knees. Still, she summons her strength, for what else can she do but fight, as is her duty to the herd?

Around her, war wages. Blood paints the Throat red, red, red. Their screams ring out over the battlefield, gristly wails and moans, cries for help, help that is not coming to the Throat. Are they losing right now? The smack of meat on meat is not familiar sound, not this many. This is no skirmish. This is war. Will any survive the sudden onslaught? When will the carrion crows descend? Already the black scavengers begin to gather on loud wings, settling on trees and watching the savagery and brutality, the monstrous nature of the Basiners and the desperation and righteous anger of those defending.

What if she dies, leaving her people?

She drops her head, ears pinned tightly to skull, and barges forward, wings clamped tightly to her sides. Every muscle screams a protest; a protest she ignores. The dust is thick, making it more difficult to see, yet she hopes she runs head-on to him, to ram his right shoulder (her left) with her right wing, which could throw a good buffet when needed. As she lopes forward, she would reach to bite his spine, in the center of his back, and attempt a smack at him with her long tail to his head, to discourage him from biting her haunches.

For a moment she is swept back to fighting Murdock. Where are the mercenaries of the Foothills? Would they come if aid was sent to them? She remembers their dance.

Then she's back, with blood burning a permanent smell in her nostrils, fear and rage with it. Both the scent and terror sickens her. There's a presence around this stallion, a shadow that obliterates all else.

But she will not let being afraid stop her. Especially not of this stone stallion the same size as her, whose only advantage in breed difference is the sharp needle on his face.