Bellona
To win the war, but flee the battle, is one of the Gods' greatest sins.

Annoyance flares up in her breast like a smouldering flame, starting as an ember and growing into something far more lethal. The assault that she has planned for the steel-toned brute falls short at her rear -- her reliance on the sand for dependable footing is what has cost her this victory. Stark blue ears snap back against her skull and the hybrid gnashes her teeth together, missing their intended target as she falls. The peahen is not accustomed to this feeling of failure, and it halts her advance on the unicorn while she attempts to come to terms with it.

Her rapid descent begins when her lean legs give out from beneath her, but the maiden struggles to maintain her balance with a frantic flapping of her wings. She has almost prevented herself from a sandy collision when the unicorn decides to help her down; she had thought that his bowed neck was only meant for protection, but perhaps the warrior is not as smart as she thinks. His weapon breaches the border between emerald and ruby skin, and as the pressure of his sword increases so does the depth of this new gash. The wound does not grow as long as it would have if the bird just stood there -- it is no longer than the maiden's cannon bone, and the deepest part of it, where it starts to curve underneath her red belly, is only an inch or so deep. It is the idea of the horned beast piercing her that hurts the warrior the most as she completes her fall, jarring her shoulder when it slams into the sand and causing her right wing some grief when it folds underneath her. The sun-heated particles rise up like a wave and sprinkle her bright hide, becoming ensnared in her thick mane and littering her wound. Now that she is upon the ground the pain finally hits her, and the sharp sting of sand in her fresh cut brings her to immediate action.

Picking up her front legs and planting them in the sand, the beauty lifts her body from the earth and casts a weary eye in the direction of her oppressor. Rage puts out of the flames of annoyance like a storm, and she takes this new inspiration of emotion to heart as she unfurls her flying instruments. There is only a dull pang in the right-most wing, but the pain is not extreme enough to make the peahen reconsider her next attack. Sand has found a way in every crevice in each of her wings, and the wily vixen intends to use this to her advantage.

Using the shifting ground as her tool, the chieftess puts her weight back on her heels and leans her body to the left to spin towards the dappled soldier. As she performs her twirl Bellona raises her wings above her crown, briefly blocking out the noon-day sun. It is not as if that detail matters, however, for the maiden has closed her eyes to save them from the impeding storm. Working her broad shoulders, she moves her wings in a frantic pulse to dislodge the debris that is wedged between her feathers. The golden particles shower down on the white-laced and (if he has not moved) dappled creatures. It is the winged one’s hope to blind the stallion, and she reveals her orange pools as the last of the sand leaps from her wings. She forces the strong members down and pushes off from the shore with her limber legs, stirring more sand as she takes flight.

She rises high enough above Ciceron so that her long legs dangle at the same height as his head, and she is careful to avoid impaling herself as she guides her body closer. Powerful quarters ripple from the effort of pulling her legs up, but that force is released as soon as she brings her legs down. The hybrid is trying to clobber the unicorn’s head with her blunt weapons, and she even aims a swift kick to his horn in an attempt to break it off. Take that, you tzitzimitl! The slight difference in their height is nothing to the swift bird, and she seeks to prove that he has no advantages over her with this act. Her eyes are alight with the challenge at ruining his only weapon, for she feels that she must repay him for the wound that he has afflicted on her. The slash has a steady crimson stream flowing from it now, and malice taints her mind at the thought of her blood marring his pristine figure. She yearns to stain his righteous image with the red that leaks from her body. Let you ruin yourself with the gash you have marked me with.


"Talk talk talk."

{WC: 799|Attack: 2/3|Defense: 0/1
tzitzimitl - "demon".}