Unlike Crowley, the gypsy was very much a fighter; her whole life had been fray after fray, a struggle against life itself as well as physical opponents. The laughter that entwined with the ringing of bells had been her armor, a cheer full wall initially constructed to hide the fragments of her bleeding soul, a wall that now housed a blackened pit of decay that could only pretend to love the world around it. Even in her delight at the splendid and good natured spar between the Weaver and herself, her rancorous heart desired nothing of him but a proper performance; he had been a shadow in her life for many years, a man that surely should have meant more to her than a source of amusement. Had the bihorned stallion truly known her, perhapis his worries of proving inadequate may be much less - the bitch certainly did not care what he thought of her.

A thrilling vibration rippled through her precious appendage upon impact, a sensation she had come to love deeply in her nine years of life; it moved across the span of bone between her eyes, drawing the hot pull of an emotion similar to lust to the surface of her thoughts as it most always did. The added thrill of the Weaver's silence after the assault on his already wounded shoulder fueled her smile, stretched broad in honor of their grandeur; warrior or not, Crowley had certainly upheld her twisted beliefs that the horned were far superior to their plain faced cousins, and she was pleased as one such as herself may be.

At least until his shoulder slammed against her gnashing teeth.

Talbot's explosion of noise had delayed her bite as a golden eye searched the perimeters of her vision for the hound, not eager for canine teeth to tear her flesh open; such wounds were fearsome, even the smallest holding vast potential for infection when paired with the carrion laced saliva. She realized all too late that the rear assault was merely a ploy - eyes like saucers she watched the sundered flesh nearing her features, vainly attempting to raise her nose to the heavens as the top crest of his shoulder swiftly carried out the rest of the movement for her. Clack! sounded out her ivory teeth as the forcibly met, the continued momentum of the shove slamming Crowley's shoulder into the curve of breast and shoulder; stars raced through her head from the impact to her tender muzzle, her hooves spreading broad and desperately gripping for purchase on the grassy earth.

Narrowly avoiding being bowled over, the golden mare spun her fore away from the Weaver as soon as her head cleared and the ground was once again firmly beneath her, bells singing as the dancer came to a stand still.

[ Closing Defense - no word count or table my tablet is a pain to copy/paste on :|. ]