My ears are down low, pressed against my damp nape, entangled amongst the thick, unyielding ropes of dreadlocked mane. The action helps me block out my surrounds, it allows me to focus solely on him. The stallion, the draft mutt that I had so easily manipulated, becomes the centre of my world, everything else just becomes a blur of background noise. We stand roughly facing each other, a few paces between us, and as my question's echo fades into nothingness, I feel the nerve endings of my body stand on end, awaiting a response.

I had gotten a sick satisfaction before when I had seduced this stallion into thinking he could have his way with me. It is with even further satisfaction that I watch as his muscles tense, as the weight of whatever thoughts are on his mind condense, as his teeth grind and eventually flash at me. A smirk that contains no laughter behind it pulls at one corner of my mouth, as I relish in my ability to get exactly what I want from this steed.

Electric eyes watch the hellhound retreat, and I am pulled from my analysis of the steed for a moment as a low growl is sent my way. I don't know what I expected, truly, but as she leaves, I am reminded of you, your death, the feeling of my soul being ripped from my core as your own departed this dimension. I want her to stop leaving, to make her turn and come back, to make her stand by my side. I yearn to feel her soul, to revel in the sensation of another's inner workings becoming entwined with my own. I watch as she leaves, ignorant to the stained teeth and reeking breath being tossed in my direction - which I was foolish to miss, I'll admit. I even lift my ears slightly, my tiara lowered, my right foreleg raised as if to follow the pup - which is when he hits me.

'He' being Rosticlav, the bulky, surprisingly strong and co-ordinated stallion I had successfully enraged enough to battle. Shock was my initial reaction, as his hardened muzzle grazes up my left mandible, leaving behind a string of ragged flesh in its wake, a haphazard line that follows a path starting at the base and leading up to my brow. Suddenly I am blinded in my left eye, as metallic, coppery life-liquid drips from my brow and clogs around my eyelashes. My head tilts automatically downwards, the ache causing me to grind my teeth and shut my eyes. But he hasn't stopped, and I suddenly my left ear feels like it is on fire too.

I won't be getting distracted again in a hurry.

It is strange, uniquely thrilling and horrific, having your ear be almost swallowed by a stinking, deplorable drunk. Rosticlav seems to think he is some kind of crocodilian creature now, as his neck tenses and pulls rapidly to and fro, I feel like my ear is about to depart on a one-way trip away from my skull. By some miracle, however, it sticks. My skin splits at the base of my ear, and I feel that odd, disturbing sensation of blood dribbling out once more, probably painting a charming crimson path down the ridge of my nose.

The rain seems to only be getting more determined to hang around, and that helps me in this instance. It has given my skin less traction against would-be attacker's teeth, and I feel my freshly spilled blood combine with my already damp ear, and the stallion's saliva (what a disgusting thought), and eventually slip off mid-shake. I stumble away, my haunches bunching to gather my hooves beneath me, but the rain has also made the ground that dangerous, slippery and muddy texture, and I find myself unwillingly sliding as I attempt to pull away from this steed. I blink, rapidly, moving to shake my head before getting halfway through the motion and deciding against it - fuck that hurts. But, I would not be hurt any more, I resolved. I keep trying to turn away, spinning on my haunches, towards my right. My left wing is open, and with any luck, the hard edge of would bash the drunkard over his head on its way past. And if not, I pause dizzily in my spinning (having turned almost 180 degrees), and throw all my weight forward.

Traction is loose beneath my forefeet as I lift my hind legs and strike out, hoping the stallion is still within range, praying that I feel the shuddering halt of my motion clashing against his bulky form.

---

Tag: @[Rosticlav]
WordCount: 775 (according to MS Word)
Attack: 1/3
Will post my OOC tips in a new table below C:

Head pounding to the beat of my working heart, I find myself grinding my molars together with the concentration of simply keeping my balance. Getting bashed over the eye and having one's ear gnawed on didn't exactly make for an ideal start to a brawl, though I would give Rostislav points for landing a hit.

My wing thwaps against his crown as I spin about, the hard edge of it aching from the impact. I was fortunate that it smacked against something that was able to bend away, for had it struck anything harder and I belatedly think of how a simple fracture could have formed and grounded me - my worst nightmare. Through the fog of pain that clouds my head, I try to remember to keep my wings away from the fight, and I lift them high now, still open, but held almost vertically up from their joints at my shoulders. My muzzle dips lows as my hinds strike out, the mud not far from the blood-drenched curves of my façade, and I groan as the blood stings my left eye. I blink, rapidly, even as my solid hooves shudder against the pectoral region of Rostislav. The motion tipped me even further forward, and given my compromised, aching crown, I scrambled to regain my balance afterwards. A small part of me felt grim satisfaction at my successful attempt, but mostly I am simply trying not to fall down in the aftermath.

I continue to push my hips around to the left, lifting my cranium back to a level just above my withers, tilting it so that my right eye, currently the only one unhindered by blood and sticky forelock, obtains insight into the position of Rostislav. I am unnerved slightly by what I see, for when he stands up on his back legs like that, a fear, swift like a flash of lightning, cuts through me - what if he means to take me, to force me? My resolve soon floods me once more, and even as the steed comes down at me with his broad, flat hooves, I feel my determination rise within me once more - I will not be beaten.

I dart forward, hoping to miss the flailing of his hooves altogether, but I am held back by the terrain that my own magic helped create. My own hooves argue with the slick mud, even as the sun glints through the sheets of rain - my magic lost its grip on the rainfall minutes ago, now it was slowly being burnt off by the scorching TallSun heat, leaving in its wake thick, gluggy mud underfoot, and rain that had changed from a downpour to a mere, sprinkling, sunshower. Patches of my own coat that weren't darkened by mud and wet reflected the scene, which was probably quite picturesque - if one ignored the two souls attempting to tear each other apart in the middle of it. I try again, and again, to drag myself forward, grunting in pain as he crashes down upon me. It mostly smashes against my right hip, and I am fortunate that my right hock was cocked at the time, allowing the impact to shudder more easily down the entire limb, instead of the much more devastating situation of having my pelvis take all of the impact, and likely fracture as a result. A sharp stinging follows the trail of his hoof as it cuts through my flesh, reaching from the point of my hip down about the width of a hoof. It is not deep, but I wince as a small flap of skin forms and fills with rain and muck, making it feel a lot worse than it actually is.

Reluctance to further compromise my right hind leg prevents me from utilising the small gap between our bodies and filling it with another assault from my hind hooves. Instead, I continue to push myself forward and around to my right, hoping to swing myself enough around so that I am lined up perpendicularly to Rostislav's right side. I do not rear, for I have no desire to expose my stomach to his horned head, but instead snake out my teeth, aiming for the fleshy, cresty area of his nape. As this happens, my right foreleg makes to strike out, hoping to entangle his foreleg in with my own, perhaps forcing him into a bow, or even bang a fracture into the cannon bone of his nearest (right) foreleg. With my vision the way it is, however, I think I would be lucky to be able to discern the dark roaned brute from the surrounding mud and grime - I know I am at a disadvantage, but I just pray that he is as restricted by injury as I am.

---

[ Tag: @[Rostislav]
WordCount: 800 (MS Word)
Attack: 2/3 ]

Wet. Sloshy, slushy mess has worked its way up my legs, across much of my hide. I'm not one to care for appearances, but when that grime could threaten my life expectancy, I begin to worry. Now, more than ever, I miss your presence, your reassurance, your teeth, your howl, your ability to call hell's fire to rain down upon an opponent. Oh, how I miss you, Sitka. Blindly, I find myself holding onto the slippery, fleshy crest of Rostislav, his filthy mane tickling my tongue, my throat, so much so that I must release before I am able to even draw any blood. I hope I've managed to burst enough blood vessels that as his body tries to heal he gets a blood clot lodged somewhere vital.. As my crown pulls back I am coughing, my eyes squinting shut, my left one particularly tight as the motion pulls on the split flesh that has massacred my face.

Meanwhile, my foreleg has clashed wonderfully against his own, however I am not left many moments to revel in my success as I continually try to simply stay standing in this thickening mud and muck. Something hard has smashed itself against my cheek, and naturally my body leans away from it, my hooves sliding to my left. My sharp, cerulean eyes peek out from behind my bloodied and heavy eyelids, spying the flat, yellowed teeth of Rostislav retracting away from me after their brutal collision with my mandible. My ears pin more insistently against my poll, my own teeth baring to show my disgust, my abhorrence for his very existence at this moment.

Then something buffets my other side, and I find myself simply backing up, away from - his tail?! A hacking, rough, sick sounding cough of laughter chokes its way out of my throat, as I settle into the painful, borderline insane state of mind known as deranged. Everything aches, even as I backup my step falters as my weight shifts onto my right hind, my face stings as Rostislav's hairs from his pesky tail slash across it. I am shocked to find tears forming in my eyes, their saltiness adding to the blur that the blood did, though I know they form to help wash the blood and grime from my eyes, so that I might not be permanently damaged.

Was there any point, though? Wasn't I damaged enough?

Sitka, I pray, I moan, unknowing if my voice actually articulates the word or if it really is just a moan. My crown bows down, and for a moment, it is as if I have given in, I have admitted defeat, I have thrown in the metaphorical towel.

It is then, that I feel it. The surge of power, the lifeforce within me, dancing all around me. My ears prick, my eyes blink away my tears to view the world anew. The Sun shines down upon us, and I can feel your presence within me once more - or perhaps I have died and joined you wherever it is you have gone. My wings open, and though my left one complains about it, they fill, and cup the wind that gusts upwards, lifting my body up, away from this wretched situation. The hopelessness within me is washed away, and a renewed vigour for life returns. The weight of my body is taken away from my aching limbs, which drip dark mud and blood down their lengths. For a moment, I am free of all that moments ago had grounded me, and I was full with the decision to simply fly away, to leave this stallion and his worthless self behind.

But that would just be too easy.

My flight takes me upwards and backwards, my wings flapping gently, mostly it is the magic that thrums through my very soul keeping me aloft. I hone in onto him, and with delicate, careful strokes, I tilt myself into a dive that would have my lowest point be, with any luck, directly onto his back. My speed picks up, and though it helps the blood from my gash wash back, it stings said gash tremendously, and I know this is not my most accurate of final farewells. Reaching out with my forelegs, keeping my hinds tucked so as not to jolt my aching right hip, I aim simply to strike down sharply. With any luck, I'll have knocked him down to the ground, where he can watch me happily fly away.

You shall not contain me, you shall never take away that which I hold most dear.

For it has already been taken from me.

Stay with me, Sitka.

[ Tag: @[Rostislav]
WordCount: 776 (MS Word)
Attack: 3/3 ]