Evening had come, and with it, tears began to fall from the heavens. Long-since passed souls were crying... But why? The painted colors in the sky were dark and muddled by the arriving storm, like jewels resting at the bottom of a muddy pool of water. The tawny purples and vibrant pinks of the setting sun lost their beauty, growing dull and rather mundane with the clouds billowed and collected in the sky.

"... Why do you cry?" The question, brimming with innocence, escaped the stallion's lips. The rain, a steady buildup of heavenly sobs, pelted against his bleached withers and along his back, and down the curvature of his muscled rump, dark rolling rivulets marring the white of his spotted underbelly. The sound of the rain within his ears, striking the ground in soft pitter-patters, drew the Chief into a false lull of relaxation... At least, until a booming clap of thunder and streak of lightning filled up the sky, and with it, a stranger's shrill bellow shouting his name to the heavens.

"APOLLO! Face me, coward, and fight me like a man!"

Ever so slowly the Merciful lifted his head, ears snapping forward, soulful eyes searching. Who? Mind racing, Apollo tried to place a face to the distorted voice that summoned him through the storm, and yet none came. Still... He was no fool. Apollo had heard such beckoning -demanding- tones before, during both his youth and his time in Helovia. With the relentless fury of the storm came a challenger and Apollo would answer.

Perhaps... This is why you cry. Give me strength.

Pushing himself from the water-logged earth beneath his hooves, the overo ventured to meet his challenger. With every step he took, hoofs sinking into the drowning grasses, his head rose higher, jaw setting in determination and honey-brown eyes sparking in defiance. Did he feel fear for the outcome? Yes, of course. Apollo was not so haughty to believe himself higher than such a vital emotion... But much more than his title as Chief was at risk.

With another reverberation of thunder and an electric pulse of lightning to split the skies, Apollo the Merciful arrived upon the clearing which would serve as their battleground and paused his leisurely walk. Around him, rain soaked the grasses and the trees, but the boundaries of their battleground were unspoken. Briefly Apollo surveyed his surroundings, taking it all in, analyzing and collecting the information he would need. The rain from the storm would make traction a myth of a thing for this fight, and so speed would not be an ally here.

As his eyes roamed the scene, they cast upwards along the crest of a mighty hill, and what he saw nearly took his breath away and caused a wetness to enter his eyes that had nothing to do with the storm raging around them. There, suppressed and hard to illuminate given the growing darkness and the torrential downpour of rain, was his herd. His family. Phaedra's beautiful glimmer was like a beacon of light, of hope, of belief, and it filled him with steadfast determination. Phaedra, Solace, Archibald, Ciceron, Mesec, Ktulu... They had come to lend him their strength.

Resolute eyes finally landed upon his opponent with a slap of his drenched tail against his flank, taking in the sight of the armored, ebonite mare with grit shining in his eyes. He had not spoken to her, but he knew her name. Confutatis. Here she was, his challenger, this brute of a mare with a faux sense of self-glorification. What had she done to warrant calling him a coward? Apollo had fought for these lands; he had shed blood and drawn blood to call the Foothills his home... And what had she done, this demonic bitch, save strut to their borders and ask for entry?

No. She was sanctioned nothing. Apollo would see to that.

Within her Apollo sees madness. This hellion full of souless, malignant spectres would do nothing for his herd, his family, save drive them into turmoil and destruction. The macabre spirits danced within her grisly mind would take form within their world and uproot their home, impregnating the Foothills with darkness and horror incarnate. It was for this reason he arrived; not to keep his title of Chief, but to challenge the darkness that threatened his home.

"... I have come, shinigami," his voice was raised and unfaltering to be heard over the rage of the billowing storm. Lifting a hoof, the Merciful brought it down upon the ground with rage, sending mud and water flying with a loud splat! "You summoned me, you challenged me... But you have challenged more than just one soul here today. Fight me, Confutatis, not for your 'right' to lead, but for your position within this herd!"

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Confutatis can make the first attack. Good luck, Wanderer! :D ]

She laughs.

Be it at his words, or the arrival of those who come to watch the battle, Confutatis obviously finds something utterly hilarious. Apollo simply watches her, the way that she cackles madly to herself, driven to madness by those internal demons. Her laughter did nothing except fuel his desire to see her fail, to drive this mar of darkness from his land and see that it never returned. How could Confutatis even begin to think that she, this broken, paranoid, psychotic creature, could lead a herd? A snort was his only reply to her quaking, manic laughter.

Did he wish her death? No. Apollo was not one of the Gods, nor was he a murderer, and a life, no matter how deteriorated and petty, was not his to take... Yet perhaps death would still be a mercy, to free Confutatis from her own demented mind. However, he would not be the one to deliver her.

The Chief's ears flick forward as Confutatis screams madly at those who have gathered to watch, screams at Phaedra, and Apollo spares them the briefest of glances. He cannot read their expressions in the rain, but he could only imagine what Phaedra the Opulent was feeling. Guilt, perhaps, that it had been she who allowed Confutatis into their home? Or righteous anger, that Apollo knew she was so capable of? Either way, it mattered not. These 'trespassing outcasts' were welcome upon his land, for they had been the ones to earn it. They had been the ones to fight for the Foothills, seasons ago, united fiercely as the Grey. Such devotion, such fierceness, well... Apollo didn't think Confutatis had the ability to comprehend it.

They were welcome here, but Confutatis was not.

The monochromatic overo watches her, his target, his challenger. He watches the way that she trembles, the baring of her teeth as though a stalking predator, the dementia shining in her eyes. In response, honey-brown eyes narrow, muscles quiver in anticipation, breath escaping him in collected breaths and muscles tightening to prepare for whatever strike she may send his way. This was the battle that would determine everything, but no matter the ending result, the war had just begun. Dethroned today or not, Confutatis would not see the end of him.

Come, demon-bitch, his mind whispers in a brief flare of indignant rage, Fight me like the warrior you pretend to be!

It seems that his patience outweighed hers, for the armored, ebony mare charged. That, or she had grown tired of the sound of her own voice. Apollo's rear left hoof moved backwards albeit slightly to brace himself, attempting to find purchase in the thick muck that lay at their feet. During her approach, Apollo was reminded of his battle with Tharos, and how the idiotic stallion had thrown himself into the fray with little thought. They were close in size, that idiot stallion and this demented mare before him now; close coupled, stocky, taller in height than Apollo himself.

You know how to pick them, Apollo. His mind teased, but he had no other time to give it thought before Confutatis was upon him. Her charge had been slow of pace, surely to avoid slipping and falling in the mud, her legs coated with the unsightly brown sludge just as his surely were. Slowing, Confutatis rears up, and he hears from her lips what he assumes is supposed to be a threat. 'I am the daughter of Oblivion the Demon King, and you - will - fall.' Apollo did not know this Oblivion, and never before had he heard the name... And from that alone, Apollo felt no fear from her hissed tactic of intimidation.

"You are a child," Apollo bellows in retort, bracing himself before attempting his attack, "A child playing in the shoes of your supposedly 'fearsome' father!" It was a foolish move, what he attempts to do next, but... Apollo was no warrior. He was no soldier. He was a medic turned Chief, and if defending his home meant protecting it with his body, then he would. Hoping that his timing was well enough, Apollo charges forward in the midst of the demonic-bitch's rear, tucking his head to hopefully poise his horn towards her exposed undercarriage and pushed forward off the muddy earth.

The pain which explodes upon his back is excruciating, the feel of Confutatis' flailing hooves sinking into the skin and sinewy muscles of his withers and back, prying forth a choked cry of pain from his lips. Still, clenching his eyes shut against the onslaught, Apollo attempts to finish his attack by driving forward, hoping his horn would penetrate the exposed flesh of Confutatis' belly... Or, in the very least, his attack might unbalance her in the chaos of the mud and rain.

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The unwelcome warmth of blood splattering his face and coating his horn was the only response that he had garnered from Confutatis as his horn dug into her naked underbelly, not including the scathing, clipped retort she had shoved down his ears in answer to his remark about this 'Oblivion' fellow. Apollo's ears snapped backwards as his head ached from her shrill screams, the two black digits pinning against his skull to be lost among the soaked, drenched tendrils of his ebonite mane.

The white of his blaze was marred and stained with Confutatis' blood, as was his horn, and had he not been in the thralls of battle, Apollo felt he could have been sick. How much blood would he need to shed? How many times would the crystalline blue of his horn be debauched with the blood of his foes? First there had been Tharos; Apollo recalled how his final attack upon the grey draft had left him in this exact predicament, face and horn covered in the precious life-blood of another after running the other stallion through with his jeweled crown. Confutatis would be his second... The overo wasn't certain if that was a good or bad thing.

As the skull-faced hellion dislodged herself from him, sliding to his left, the Merciful could not stop the groan of pain that escaped his lips as the bloodied plains of his back and withers gave a sharp throb of protest. Rivulets of blood mixed and mingled with the falling rainwater and slid down his drenched hide, but Apollo knew he could not stop to attempt to tend to his wounds. Confutatis was already moving to attack him again.

No good cheating bitch!

Chocolate eyes were wide and rolling as he saw Confutatis duck her head towards his left hind leg and bring her hind end up to kick at his face. A shrill cry of alarm left his lips and in an attempt to avoid her attack, the stallion jerked his head to the right to try and avoid her dagger-like hooves. A sharp, biting pain filtered through his body, radiating from the collision of Confutatis' hooves upon the middle point of his muscled shoulder and up perhaps an inch or two onto the skin of his neck, ripping away chunks of hair and skin. Blood oozed from the gash and Apollo let out a furious snort of breath, eyes narrowing in both anger and radical discomfort.

Letting out a low, baritone cry of rage, the black and white stallion tried to moved his hind end towards Confutatis and her gnashing jaws as he received her kick to his shoulder, his fore-hooves slipping slightly in the disgusting, shit-brown muck beneath him as he attempted to find purchase. In the moments of what he hoped her jaws were aiming for, or perhaps near his hock, Apollo kicked out to the left with his hind left hoof, towards her head before her egotistical and nonsense-vomiting jaws could latch onto him.

Not even pausing to see if he had hit her smug, bastardly face, Apollo moved to plant all four legs upon the slick ground once more, his eyes wide as he scanned the immediate area around them. The rain still fell in heavy sheets and lightning continued to strike out across the sky in mighty flashes, the rolling explosions of the thunder shaking the earth and reverberating through his frame. All in all, the weather looked as though it would not pick either side of this fight.

"You can stop this, Confutatis!" Apollo bellowed before he moved next, his nostrils flaring wide with every hardy breath he sucked in to his lungs, "Stop this pointless battle, this pointless bloodshed!"

Pushing off the earth with his front two hooves, both his shoulder and the expanse of his back stinging in pain at the action, Apollo attempted to pivot on his back left hoof and spin to his left, towards Confutatis once more, and his head tipped to the left at a downward angle so that his blood-stained horn was poised askew. Hoping that Confutatis wouldn't move, or have already moved, the overo tried to run her through with his horn. His aim was anywhere upon her hind end; be it her thigh, buttocks, or perhaps the gaskin muscle of her leg, Apollo no longer cared.

He just wanted this damn fight to be over.

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Above their mutilated and sodden battlefield, the skies continued to cry.

Great, unearthly sobs the Heavens let out, lightning and thunder taking form of the quivering shoulders of the grieved, mourning the loss of something that only they could sense. Would one of them die tonight? Is that why the Heavens wept for the two bodies locked in battle upon mortal land? Grass and vegetation had gave way beneath dancing hooves, uprooting the greens of grass and transforming their turf to nothing but soiled, sinking mud. Traction upon this damned terrain was becoming more difficult and hard to find, and his eyes stung from the beads of rain that stabbed mercilessly into them.

... Give me strength.

The plea filtered itself once more through Apollo's mind, outstretching to any and all who may listen. The spirits of his ancestors and his long-dead parents, the lives of those witnessing this very battle, the friends and loved one's he had made during his journey, the soul of the God of the Earth himself.

Please! Give me strength!

The Merciful was no fighter. He wasn't a soldier. His horn was meant to heal, not to destroy or draw blood... And yet, since coming to Helovia, the monochromatic stallion felt that the only thing he had achieved had been partaking in violence. Being taken in by the Grey, fighting for them, shedding blood for them... Had it all been worth it? His choices reaped of un-sewn consequences, and Apollo had no one to blame but himself.

Why, in his time in this damned, beautiful land, was he just now suffering from this revelation? Why, in the midst of battle to protect his home, his loved ones? His family?

Apollo was given confirmation that his hoof had smacked rather soundly into Confutatis' unsightly face by a sickly, bone-jarring rattle that seemed to travel through his hoof and upwards, caressing through his cannon bone like a touch from an unwanted lover. It's sickening, the sound and feel, but Apollo could take no sense of satisfaction. The battle had yet to be won.

Black ears prick forward then, however, at hearing Confutatis' remark to his words... And for the life of him Apollo simply could not make since of what she means. 'Serpent and mouse, fox and wolf!' Was she making an assumption that she was the hunter, and he the hunted? Still, there were more important things to focus on than the self-ridiculing blubbering of the mad.

His next attack, however, proved fruitless and a waste of precious energy, as the only thing that his crystalline horn sliced was damp, empty air and the tears of the Heavens. Despite her wounds it seems that Confutatis is still quick on her hooves, and it's as Apollo tries to catch and re-balance himself that the skull-faced shinigami launches her next attack.

Like the Devil's specter she arrives beside him; sudden and terribly unwanted, a curse and bane to his existence. How she manages to leap upon him from such a precarious position, Apollo would never know, but suddenly his left side is swallowed by both the larger black mare and the pain from his screaming wounds. The cuts and abrasions from Confutatis' first attack are still very much present, and with combination of Confutatis' greater weight and the armor that cradled her, Apollo's legs threaten to give out from beneath him. The mud sucks at his hooves, holding him in place, and for once in this damned fight it seems to aid him rather than decide to be cumbersome.

Honey-brown orbs clench shut at the onslaught of pain and the undistributed weight bearing down upon him, a groan escaping the stallion's cracked lips. Brief memories flash in his mind of the Grey invasion upon the Foothills, and how Tharos had thrown himself upon the overo stallion in a very similar way to how Confutatis was now... Back then, Apollo had balked and reacted like a fool. Now, well... Time had changed him.

Sucking in a sharp, wheezing breath, his back and left shoulder aching something fierce, the Merciful's eyes opened to narrowed slits and he shifted his weight. The sucking mud nearly covered his front hooves, and summoning as much strength as he could, the Merciful attempted to swing his hind end towards Confutatis and unbalance her. Bracing himself as well as he able, his left front leg trembling from the exertion and pain, Apollo then attempted to buck out with his hind end. His goal, should Confutatis not remove herself from the situation entirely, was to either throw her from him, kick her in the gut where his horn had gouged her, or simply knock her to the ground. Anything would do.

You want me? His mind asked morbidly, teeth gritting and a grunt forcing its way from his throat, Then try and take me!

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The battle was escalating, reaching it's hypothetical climax, and Apollo couldn't help stave the fear that began to swim alongside his pain and fatigue. Terror took root within him, nestling in his veins and cooling his blood to a frigid temperature at the simple thought of what could happen if he should lose... Confutatis was darkness incarnate. Never in all of his years had he met someone with such vile wickedness about them, someone with such sickness rotting their brain, and the Merciful feared for all of his family if his crown was knocked from his head.

Would she kill them? Or give them a chance to flee? The images that snapped into his mind were gruesome, sickening, and heinous. They confirmed his fears, his doubts... The beautiful hills and mountainous valleys of the Foothills would be bathed with the blood of innocents, and Apollo couldn't stand the thought of it. Not to his family, his home...!

No...

Confutatis slides from him like a dead thing, heavy and cumbersome and completely unwanted, but Apollo gives it little thought as he feels his attack hit. Somehow, like the mighty strike of a war drum, the overo's rear hooves smash into the side of the black bitch's cranium. Relief and fear both fought for dominance within his sweaty breast, stealing his breath; did he kill her? Such an attack could do a crippling amount of damage, especially to such a vital place as the head... The Chief in him prayed she would not rise. The Medic did not. Tearing himself from her, his legs slapping at the muddy ground in an attempt to put some distance between them, Apollo let out a long, shuddering breath. He stopped just a few feet in front of her, left side facing the recovering demon, his sides heaving in sweat, blood, and heavenly tears.

Between the two of them, he was better off as far as injuries went. Confutatis suffered from whatever head injury she may contain, and the gouge to her belly. He wondered what compelled her to continue to fight. Was it pure idiocy, or her mental affliction that caused her to continue on? What was worth putting yourself through so much agony? Apollo could never understand, and if the situation was different, he would have offered to heal Confutatis' wounds instead of attempt to cause more of them.

It seemed that just as he began attempting to catch his breath, Confutatis was ready for more. Narrowed honey-brown eyes watched as she pushed herself to her feet, clearly worse for wear, and charged him. Like an angry wet cat she attacked, yowling and screeching pointless nothings in his ears, her hooves slipping and sliding the sucking muck beneath them as she attempts to throw herself on top of him.

Apollo sucked in a sharp breath as he tried to turn his head towards her, but only for his rear right hoof to slip in the obtrusive sludge-like silt. The moment that it takes for him to catch his balance is all the time that it takes for Confutatis the Bitch Cat to leap upon him, landing against the broad length of his back and causing his hard-earned balance to abandon him once again. A guttural oof! left Apollo's throat as they collided, and once more his hind right leg went sliding in the mud and out from beneath him, narrowly sending the stallion sprawling to the ground before he caught himself.

The cuts and abrasions upon his back and shoulder burn and scream in pain as Confutatis flails atop of him, surely smearing her blood upon him, but that soon became the least of his worries. Something hot and terribly uncomfortable began to burn upon his withers, like acid almost, and it was with a new kind of terror that Apollo doubled his attempt to break away from her. Tossing his head, the stallion released another cry of indignant, agonizing rage, the fur and flesh upon his withers beginning to corrode and burn off from Confutatis' saliva, which had rubbed upon the ebonite unicorn in their collision.

It hurts! Dear Gods above!

Through the mind-numbing pain and terror that he felt, Apollo did the one thing he could think of doing; moving towards Confutatis. With a mighty grunt Apollo tried to push himself towards her and throw her off of him, all the while twisting his neck to the left to try and gouge her once again with his horn. Just as the last time he did such an attack, Apollo cared not for where his horn hit, if anywhere. He simply wanted the devilish beast off of him, and for her to take her damned mouth-excretions with her!

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