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The rain dripped into her eyes, turning the world into a haze of gray and black, the ominous rumble of thunder pounding in her ears and crashing in her blood. Confutatis, the lightning was screaming as it cracked its whip and smashed the dome of the sky in two. For a heartbeat the storm-ravaged world was illuminated by threads of silver and pious gold, turning every water droplet to a burst of white light.
The skies were promising her glory. It was promising her strength. It was promising her everything she wanted to achieve, if only she won this battle. Battle! Ha! It wasn’t even worthy of being called a spar. Unlike Apollo, she would kill and murder, slaughter and steal lives, for she was the master of skulls, the queen of death, the ruler of the demons, and needed to uphold her iron fist of rule.
She would bow this stallion’s proud head and watch him crash into the mud, watch him bleed out dry and admire his fragile white bones as he rotted and decayed the days following his death. And what a death it would be! They would watch, so confident for Apollo to win with ease, only to see him come falling down on broken knees, to watch him crumble in despair under her relentless drive at him. She would fight like seven hells, and would give him seven minutes of slow death. Confutatis, the Usurper, they would whisper of her. Confutatis the Cruel, they would murmur days into the future. Confutatis the Queen of Skulls, they would scream as she came to murder the tyrants in their sleep. No, not the traitors- but their foals and kin, family and friends, until they were alone, and their blood would chill, and they would realize she was coming for them next.
It all began with Apollo, the Merciful.
She would show him no mercy, so she hoped he would fight, not give in easy. The daughter of Oblivion liked a good fight.
Confutatis screamed at his careless, wonton words, screeched as a cat might, the whites of her eyes gleaming. “HOW DARE YOU?!” She roars, ears clamped to her skull so tightly they disappear among the masses of her tangled mane. “DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME IN VAIN!” The mare shouts, her voice a vicious crack towards his ears. No matter. When he died, he would meet Oblivion in hell.
Then he would regret engaging in battle.
The thud of her hooves on his back reverberates through her forelegs, even as his horn slices among her gut. To her credit, she gives no sign of the pain that immediately bursts into raw, savage being. Blood splatters the mud beneath her hooves; the cut, though luckily not deep, is long and the pain shakes her. Her teeth grit, her jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles stand rigid and hard along her mouth.
Acid drips from her mouth as she disengages from him swiftly, aided by the rain that has made his hide wet and slippery. Once again his horn nicks her along the point of her hip, and a grunt is ripped from her cracked lips as she lands heavily and clumsily in the mud, sucked down by the voracious, seething quagmire.
Even despite her imminent unbalance, she kicks up at his face as her teeth seek out the fragile bones of his hind leg joint closest to her, his left hind. Take out the legs, and he will fall beneath her. He will be forced to yield to her then, at least she hopes.
It was dirty, but so was her mind and acts. She would sink to whatever lows necessary- and lie and cheat in the bargain. There was no sense of honor in her movements, but a keening need- a starving sense of hunger, a want for those to fear her name, the need for… conquering and dominating.
Each step sends pain surging through her, but she shakes it off, along with several more drops of crimson blood. For a healer, he is not altogether a bad fighter. Still, she hopes he is better a medic than warrior, otherwise he had little purpose to her.
As she moves, her eyes glance upwards, and there is a familiar figure standing among the strangers.
October. A wicked grin curls at her cracked, blackened lips. If she had the breath to waste, she would call out some snide joke or remark towards her, something only they would understand.
As it is, she has no breath to waste, with her cold lungs heaving inside her dark chest; but if she could, Confutatis knows what she would say.
Sister, I am bringing the reign of Oblivion back.
CONFUTATIS
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[JUDGED] Denouncement [Apollo - Leadership Challenge]
