Blunt ivories grind and massage the black coat as he slowly, slyly ease into position. When they finally close and his jaws tighten their grip to coax a squeal of pain from the dark mistress, he feel a shudder roll down the spine. It was such a sinful feeling to grind his fangs against her vessel, digging them deep as if to devour her. There is no love for the demoness to be found in his blackening heart, but perhaps respect - oh yes, respect and a sensation of lust and devotion derived from a promise of might.

He feel like laughing when she kick at him, her anger amusing and exhilarating. Not unlike a child playing with fire the black stag enjoy this game, aware that he could get burned but never thinking it would actually happen to him. The solid half-moon miss its intended target, his legs are well out of reach of such a feeble motion. The lack of effort annoys him - did he not tell her to be serious?. He can feel her move beside him, sense the honed muscles contract and expand as the neck reach out, jaws opening to snap at his tail with venomous drool foaming at the lips...

The skull-masked fiend quickly move the long whip away, letting it fall quickly down and off to coil around a rear leg to be out of the way - it is a difficult target to hit with all its quick movements and diminutive size, yet so many nerves and tendons run through it that Morir is wary of letting it become injured.

The attempt at his precious banner is enough to distract him however. Before he can adjust to follow along in her movements the vixen pivots and tear herself free from his grip, a motion that send the jaws clacking together with a painful snap. He bite his tongue in the process, hard enough to set pain cavorting through the fleshy muscle and spread a taste of acrid blood onto the palette.

It is uncomfortable - he'd rather lick her blood off the lips, hear her voice exude a muffled groan as a second kick scrape by a left front knee. Morir sidestepped to the right as a result, hissing as he feel tissue swelling and pulsing, blood seeping through severed veins beneath the skin. It would bruise and he might suffer a light limp for a few days after. Even now it is uncomfortable and he is careful to spare it as he inch away, still to the right in an effort to avoid the power of her hind legs.

He didn't expect his queen to possess a ranged weapon. She never told him about her abilities, revealed nothing of herself that he couldn't deduce on his own. Acid kisses could be traced by scent and sound as it hissed against the ground, but how would a blind heathen notice the unfurling of pallid bone as Confutatis armed herself, or sense the wave of death as it rushes toward him?

It would have been comforting to know that not even the seeing would have been able to see this one coming, but when his chest and left shoulder suddenly start to ache, there is nothing to soothe him. Perhaps the swarthy northman was blessed to be blind at that moment. He didn't have to witness how the the black hair withered away from dark skin where blueish rings of gangrene and rot began to spread, was spared the sight of skin sloughing and rotting away, of muscle and blood withering to expose his innards to the cold sting of winter air...

Nothing would spare him the pain. It was horrible, sickening, nauseating and made his ears ring as gasping lungs expelled a furious scream. Limping and wobbling with fear and anguish clouding the brain, the stallion dug hindquarters in beneath and threw himself forward with chin tucked in tightly, neck swelling as he blindly aimed his horns towards the right side of the mares neck - or where he thought it should be. He wanted to pay her back for this, cut her open and make her share in his agony.

He groaned when weight shifted onto bleeding and oozing forelimbs but forced himself to go on, press forward through the deep snow and move past his dance partner. Morir didn't care that he exposed his entire left side in doing so, just prayed that his spears might have caused her enough trouble to spare him her poisonous kisses. In passing he tried to deal a quick snap at her right shoulder, an invitation perhaps to follow him onward.

---

PC: 2/4 + closing defense
WC: 773

ooc: I wasn't sure which way she turned or how far, so I assumed it was to her left and 90 degrees, away from his butt. It would place them with her butt in his face but not completely on a straight line.