| Hidden Falls Tiro |
| Mare :: Pegasus :: 17.2 :: 9 Buff: NOVICE |
| aeolle |
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BRIGHID
There are teeth snapping at his face, and he drops his head hastily to avoid Brighid’s lunge, and his own teeth reach out, in aims of snapping tight around her throatlatch and clamping down, even as she spins out to buck at Dragomir. Too bad fucking bad for her that she engaged in this battle, because the only outcome was for her to die or take to the skies in defeat with her tail between her legs. As she shuffles her hindquarters, and she guffaws, Ricochet gathers himself, rearing up in hopes to bring his hooves down on her shoulders and spine should his attempt at her throat go awry.
Drivel foams at onyx maw, rabid as some rabies riddled mutt, spewed forth to dribble down a broad chest, and the woman is relieved because who in Inanna's almighty name knows what disease has plagued this foolish mongrel's mind? Revulsion at the slobber that bubbles at his mouth, proof of his idiocy, is ensnared within abhorrence of a grimacing lip. He has the utter nerve to turn harks down at her prescence, whilst at his hooves, a filthy, mud-ridden canine growls and snaps, yellowed fangs gleaming with dangerous intent. A furious hoof smacks against wet ground, squelching in the mud in the most harmless (distasteful) fashion: A warning, hushed, and as loud as a gunshot. Keep away, or I'll break you, fleabag.
There is a split second in which he believes he shall launch himself toward her, the buttermilk boy, spiteful as he may be, and her very bones quake. Let him come.
--
So the let him come thing didn't work so well. For she has assaulted the buttermilk boy whom has deemed her whore and idiot and she would laugh, too, at his former sentences (he has no idea that the woman holds no interest in the male species, accursed to a life of slavery as they well and should be) if she was not spurred with adrenaline and fear as teeth flash toward her throatlatch. The Princess of Elysia is already spinning, turning, wheeling towards a excrement and maggot painted stallion, and the Incendiary's ivories clash against a well-muscled throat. The Princess finds a leg is coming up toward her face, a appalling, equine leg towards her face, and she screeches out a ungodly deep roar of a squeal in retaliation to his movements (good job you're doing, they'll obviously believe you've turned into a lion and are about to claw out their eyes, never mind the mane and tail and not aureate fuzz). A hard bone of a cheek slams against muddy sinew, causing her teeth to clack shut with a forceful halt, a grimace spreading across obsidian and bronze maw in pain, and there is no time to wait because she is wheeling with her rump in sight of his dome and he screeches at her with a ugly squawking noise any true Pegasus would look upon in utter disdain. Hard-packed cloven hooves meet with a satisfactory thudding of flesh against stone, sending rivulets of shock up her hindquarters, and the complete and sudden adrenaline of it scalds her with the pleasure of a well-placed move. His last words woosh out of his mouth, wheezing, and the grimace that has taken over her charcoal lips turns to a gruesome grin, all flashing white ivories and a dribble of blood (when two objects come into collision with one another, one a knee and one a face, there is bound to be consequences) down her chin.
This is when the buttermilk lad decides it's time to get off his apple fattened, lazy haunches, and she hasn't hit solid ground yet with her hindquarters, and there are hooves coming down toward her shoulders and spine.
She knows he's going to hit before she lands on all fours once more. He hits her withers spot on, just missing where a solid appendage of a wing sprouts forth, and the heavy collision sends shock waves of pain through her bones. Her shoulder is rough with muscle, however, and she believes it will leave bruises, yet, it is nothing that will take her out of the game for good, and for that, she gives thanks to the God of War himself (and she is his Goddess).
The hit of his partner hoof against her spine is even less pleasant.
Let's face it. Brighid, the Daughter of Earth, is no thin woman. She is masculine, thick-skinned, her very flesh ripples with muscles as she moves, she is death incarnate, wraith upon earth, she is all but delicate in every way, form, dimension and gaze. She is Brighid, the third daughter of Inanna the Great, and she will not fall to any mortal, equine laden man.
That doesn't stop the numb feeling that ricochets down her spine as he scrapes his hoof along her flesh. Tingles move along the contours of her frame, startling in velocity, as if her entire ship has been dunked into the icy froth of the arctic sea.
For a split second, she is paralyzed.
And then she is moving, writhing, the whites of her bronze eyes gleam as sweat laces her frame and the scent of infuriation instead of fear laces the air. There is enough tension to taste, it weighs heavy upon her tongue as lead, and there's a flash of blue and maggot b—
He's aiming towards her wings. He's aiming, towards, her—
A string of expletives escapes her throat.
He's about the same height as she, and that's what saves her wings. He slams into her with his front hooves, enough weight to cause her to stumble towards the side if a bit, and damn, if she doesn't feel as if she's just been hit by a elephant, pregnant with a newborn babe (was the man a femme? a really, really hideous woman? did she have the buttermilk, filthy equines kid?) and fattened up further by the grasses of the African field. He's far too heavy, and she wonders, brief as it is, if maybe the moron has been consuming rocks in his spare time. That would make sense, really, if she thought about it. Equines and men weren't known for their clever brains. That was for women.
Like her.
She's a smart, sophisticated, battle worthy woman, fierce and brave and not good, and they are the filth that coats her cloven hooves (keep thinking that, Princess).
Maybe not the first two. That doesn't matter. She's off the train of her thoughts once more.
Where was she? Oh, yes, the feces coated lad has slammed into her shoulder, she's stumbled, and the hoof that would have hit square on her winged appendage grazes it instead and whams against the top of her withers with a thu-hoosh!
The other hoof that caused her to stumble in the first place hit square on her withers, with the exact noise of stone on flesh she had inflicted so readily upon him not but seconds ago.
It's the same shoulder Ricochet hit, her left, and she bellows, deep and resounding as that of a ox in labor at the following pain.
She whips her dome around to snap at the bridge of his nose as he comes back down toward the land and with a sudden jerk the lad has backed from her reach—
Smoke.
There's steam and flames. The edges of one of her wings flail with dangerous proximity to the flickering candlelight that glitters in her eyes as marble tiles.
A scent of burnt feathers as the tips of her primaries begin to blacken. One more second and she'll have a wing at her loss, not a dead equine man.
She screams at them— and then she's running straight between them, out of the flames, they lick the bottom of her pillars and damn it stings—
She's also in the perfect position for one of them to attack her from the side as she races through.
That doesn't matter. All that matters is flames and feathers don't get along. Too preoccupied in her own mind, she does not notice, will not notice until she has taken flight, and she is racing and there are wings mangled with twigs that slam downward in a arc and in one clumsy movement she has taken to the air once more. Down go the wings, a resounding agony consuming her as the twig that has lodged within her right wing is yanked painfully inward at the force of the air catching beneath her primaries, it whistles through her secondaries and she is airborne.
She doesn't have the right enviorment in which to fight in on this eve. A good warrior knows when to retreat into the skies and when to stay and fight. It is better to live another day, nursing bruised pride, then have her most prized possesions taken from her very flesh by the flames.
"I'LL FIND YOU AGAIN!" Comes a cry from the clouds, animosity dripping from each syllable. "AND WHEN I DO, I'M GOING TO BREAK EVERY SINGLE MISSHAPEN LEG THAT SPROUTS FROM YOUR DAMN BODIES."
Somehow, the utter fury in her voice seems too real to be anything but true.
And it is true, because she will break them all and leave them for the cougar's to eat.
A equine without their legs cannot run.
And she'll be there to hear their screams as the hungry teeth of predator's crush their skulls.
So she'll have a toast. To the future.
She's made enemies.
And she's going to watch them rot.
- WE NEED TO THREAD AGAIN PLEASE SOON YES? This thread was amazing. Brighid out!
Let's start a riot
A riot
Let's start a riot
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