He was correct to think that I was curbing true potential; the power which surged in these limbs was like a gentle caress compared to a raw energy which could be released. It would never be my intent to break this family down, not even when one took a traitorous turn; and though they might seek blood for wounding them, forcing their feet to dance this awkward show of power. I'd never truly mean harm without heavenly creed demanding a price of plasma.

Had I truly wanted to bring Rostislav to his knees though these games would cease. Capable feathered limbs would open, spreading toward my birthright, (which was the atmosphere itself.) This body would become an unreachable target that could bend the very earth beneath toes to consume flesh. The grains stirring underneath our daggers would no longer have free access to cling upon my coat with grim and grit. instead, an authoritative layer of steel would slide forth. Covering fragile points. Sand, (which was everywhere) would become a tool and powerful ally. Fina was also trained in the art of battle, her wings didn’t just give the appearance of fire – they could burn flesh.

My golden feet found their mark, a satisfying grunt of pain fills these ears with both pleasure and a stirring of faint victory. I’d struck true against the solid wall of his barrel and it was lucky that hindfeet were solidly placed. His thick hide was like a tempered mountain, barely yielding, and though I felt the vibrations up to the point of nape, it doesn’t hinder movement for more than a heartbeat. By then my quarters had already begun to slide down into the dust cloud below; settling, steadying. I slipped toward earth, opening my right wing halfway for balance while raising skull and relishing the feel of pounding blood rushing back toward lower potions instead of dulling my senses by clotting ears.

This seasoned mind wasn’t so faint to think that my Legatus was finished, nay, I'd already halfway crumbled hindquarters when he attempted to strike the painted flesh along rump. Forefeet unlocked when hindfeet hit dirt, they shuffled this frame ahead to push a little distance between us. His hot breath came chasing on, millimeters from my right hindleg. Bleached tendrils slashed back and forth; smacking dual colored flanks sweetly and causing the muscles to tremble. They sought to protect by possibly stinging his horned mug should the draft boy continue this chase, while also pouring fuel to the fire that stirred his ambition.

I spun right, slicing my right appendages back to its protected position and thrusting toward my opponent’s right side. The fleshy muscles on my proud neck arched, bending head toward throat, attempting to protect the fragile folds of flesh during this attack. Honeyed gaze is narrow and watchful, paying mindful attention to that dangerous set of spears. Forelimbs quickened the pace and hindquarters bunched up, I thrust ahead attempting to push muscled right shoulder into his breast or adjacent shoulder--- teeth slide free, opening as my neck slithered forth simultaneously with the thrust. They opened to hopefully pinch into the side of his neck that was within reach.

OOC:

Attack (3/3)

Word count: 531