The bitch was quick, he reluctantly had to give her credit to that. As he drew closer to the harlot her perfume of death and decay wafted towards his nostrils. What had ever possessed him to get lost in a passionate lust for this whore? She smelled as foul as she looked(of course, he was in deep denial of his opinion’s of the mare’s outward appearance, but that wasn’t weighing heavily upon his mind). The narrow hallway wasn’t enough to drive him toward the mare, instead he found himself driving straight toward the wall as he thrust himself. In an attempt to pull himself from the bejeweled wall, he tried to veer to the left slightly. Instead of open space, he felt his right shoulder shoulder collide with hoof. A grunt of pain escaped from his lips as his hooves hit the stones with a loud clack. There was no hesitation as he drove onward toward the mare, craving blood to fill wet his tongue and stain his lips, the crimson liquid would be his wine and he intended to get drunk on it.

Déodat veered himself toward the mare and came toward at her, this time at a canter rather than a gallop. Pain shot through his shoulder with each movement, but he attempted to persevere through it all. It was nothing in comparison to what he had felt before on the battlefield. A mere bruise would be a minor wound in comparison to what he planned to unleash upon Confutatis. If it were up to him, her head would roll, and be presented before the lord and lady as a trophy to mount upon their wall. The Blood Prince drove himself closer toward the mare, but what he faced was unlike anything that had touched his flesh before. That foul magic of hers had been unleashed. It crawled up his legs and to his breast. Sheer agony that felt like fire ran through his skin, he could feel it dying. There had been enough decay upon his flesh. Though he had stopped for what felt like a whole century as the death magic tickled his skin(really it had been mere seconds.)

A new fury lit his eyes as he looked up at the mare. Rage he hadn’t felt in nearly two years consumed him. It was the hatred he had felt toward the stallion that had vanquished his father. It was the hatred he had felt toward the equines that turned their backs upon his clan. The loathing within his eyes was the passion felt toward every enemy or demon that had ever entered his life. All of the blaze would be unleashed upon this mare, and Déodat had every intention of her being completely burned.

The Blood Prince was a berserker now, and as he drove himself toward the mare he released a violent scream, paying no mind to her companion that lay in wait to strike. His focus was on her and her alone. Déodat drove himself closer toward the mare hopefully facing her right and as he attempted to draw closer and closer, he lowered his horn and tried to swipe it down her neck with a force, hoping to drive his sword deep into her tainted flesh. As he turned his neck he attempted to turn his body and smash into her right side as aimed to come along her.

[2/3
569 words]
"talk talk talk"