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

A playful wind stirs bright locks, carrying the fresh scent of grass with it in its journey to the towering heights of the maiden’s crown. This last descriptor of the fierce maiden is no hyperbole, though, for atop the blue hues of her head sits the macabre figure of a crown formed of bones. Where the materials for such a thing come from is questionable, but the thought of the costume’s origin does not concern the one who is wearing it; in the peahen’s opinion, the bones that she wears over top her own skeleton heighten the oxymoron brought to life by her body. What better way to display that such a beauty can be so dangerous than to display the bones of past enemies upon it? Not that any of these are real – or are they?

The bleached tones of the armor almost seem to glow as the sun hits them, and a devious smile curls blue lips. If the brilliant warrior is known for anything it is for her resourcefulness, and even though the bones are worn for fun she can’t help but to consider using them to her advantage. The rough material is not nearly reflective enough for the idea that promptly comes to mind, but she does not throw the thought away completely. If her state of dress cannot be used for distraction’s purposes can it be useful for something else? Bright eyes seek out their white-garbed opponent as lean pillars continue with their promenade. The striped limbs halt when she has caught sight of the mare, and vibrant ears press forwards in surprise.

While the skeletal creature studies the bloody robes around the unicorn, a dark creature pads up beside her, peering up the crowned woman as if seeking her approval. Unblinking orbs continue to scrutinize the bandaged figure, ignoring the plea in the bond to finish her study of the horned beast. The other vixen’s hide has already been stained crimson, and the prospect of taking on a wounded opponent unsettles the bird. Her mannerisms are fleetingly feminine, that is true, but at least she can house some form of concern in the pits of her churning belly. All manner of reluctance is set aside as soon as the specter beckons her forth, and striped forelegs rise up to batter at the air, returning the lady’s call to battle.

Regarding the boy at last, the crowned vixen releases broad wings to send the hyena skittering to the right. A harsh gleam and a spark of excitement pierce her stare at once, and she directs the look upon her companion to make certain that he will understand. Are you ready, Mictla? Do not let her reach you. Go around behind her if you can. Magnificent limbs stir the air as she watches him go, encouraging him to move swiftly through the cropped grass so that he will not be detected. Pride erupts inside of her like a tidal wave, coating her insides with its froth and drowning out anything else that might have been there. His scrawny frame sticks out among the drying grass, and for once she does not reprimand him for it; her boy will do the best with what he has, and so far he has not caused too much grief by doing so. She does not watch his spotted hide for long when the sound of speeding hooves reaches her ears, increasing in volume and joining with the clink of a chain that she has not noticed before.

In the span of a few heartbeats the bird is plucked by gnashing porcelains, and a cry of annoyance more than outrage spills forth from her gaping maw. A crowned head turns to go after the demon, causing her body to swing left in her pursuit, but bandaged quarters do as they have intended to and rise up to make contact with the maiden’s girth. It is perhaps the most basic of moves but it does the trick, for pain spreads out in a starburst of passion from the paint where the chained leg has reached her. A limp is sure to plague her for part of the battle – if not all of it – but the peahen is too focused on retaliation to care. As expected by one so recently wounded, the maiden’s pace is slowed and she cannot gain speed as swiftly as she is used to, but that does not deter her from her rear. Striped quarters bunch up in the efforts of taking on her weight, and blunt hooves churn the air as if climbing an invisible mountain. Should the bird have timed her attack right, the dark weapons will hopefully have met with the unicorn’s right shoulder, but she will not complain if they reach her chest instead.


"Talk talk talk."

{WC: 799|Attack: 1/2|Defense: _/0}