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Blood dribbled over the lips of skin that spilt into a crimson grin upon her shoulder, running thickly down the contours of her scapula, elbow, and spattering upon her foreleg as motion jolted the scarlet streams. Teeth ground into the wooden shaft they held, as every movement, every tensing of muscle or twitching of skin caused an ache. The pain began as a reminder of what had caused the injury - sharp, quick, lancing, before dulling to a constant, throbbing ache. Each heartbeat encouraged more blood to coagulate and pour over the edge, as the wound furiously tried to scab over, failing hopelessly against the continual shifting of the foggy-girl's body. As her spear struck upon her new crimson-gold marked target, she silently cursed, wishing amidst everything else that she was just a bit taller, that she might be able to reach her desired targets more often.

As a tennis player follows through with the swing of their racquet, so too did Cirrus' body continue on the arc of attack even after it had struck. So as the great behemoth turned to his right, Cirrus turned to hers, and they were almost parallel, if facing in opposite directions. The abrupt expansion of wings and feathers caused the girl's muscles to bunch again, a completely reactive motion as she skittered another step slightly forward, hooves digging in to the soft, damp loam instead of slipping this time, divots showing her path amongst the misty grasses.

Eyes widened even more as the steed rose to higher heights. He's tall enough already! the girl thought hopelessly, watching as power then surged forth from his hooves. It jolted her, and to her right fell the spear. It was barely allowed a thought on her mind as the girl grappled at the moving ground with limbs that felt like spaghetti. Haunches bunched and she splayed her wings out awkwardly to the sides to try and maintain her balance. She had just tipped her nose down to the level of her knees when a heavy thwump struck the fleshy area of her left hip. It was ideally timed by Hector, who had struck just as the girl had lifted her left hindleg off the ground in an attempt to rebalance. With her right one still feeling much like jelly, the blow caused her entire hind-end to crumple.

The world stopped shaking (finally, the girl thought), and her forelegs frantically worked to keep herself mostly upright. They did not crumple like the back, but the imbalance took several precious seconds to recover from. Broad wings flapped heavily against the loam, the left one possibly striking at the behemoth should he still be within striking distance. Using her feathered appendages as levers against the loamy earth, the girl rose to her full (comparatively diminutive) height, churning up soil and grass in the process. As if to help her, a wind struck up, summoned unconsciously by the magic that she was blessed with at the fall of her father, the General, the Ardent.

The wind did little to actually help her, though it cooled her hide (and stung her cut). As weight settled into her hips again, she felt the left one complain painfully at the strike it had taken. A lump had already formed; perfectly shaped as a replica of Hector's generous hoofprint, and a lameness would be evident in her stride should she walk off.

Ruling out chasing the steed down as an option, the cloud attempted to formulate another plan, another strike, another message to say yes, I am here, and I will stand beside you, as my father once did. A snort rolled heavily from her nostrils, the watery spittle and snot spraying before her, silver droplets in the midnight light. Encouraging her magic to linger, and grow stronger, the girl smiled darkly as so swiftly, visibility was reduced even further. Clouds converged above them, and the present humidity in the air already made it easy for her to will rain to fall from their pregnant bellies. Sometime in the flurry she created, she had bent down to retrieve her now-muddy spear from the ground to her right, and as she lifted her tiara she expertly threw it towards where she hoped the behemoth still stood. She had not aimed for anything vital - she did not wish to kill him, merely to prove to him that she was indeed worth of the rank she now held. It was a strong throw; it needed to be to fly amongst the rain she had created. Her aim was for where she estimated the brute's right wing to be, about a foot off the joint that attaches the wing to his bulky body, the perfect spot to throw a weapon like a spear without causing irreparable damage.



[ 800 words according to MS Word.
3/3 attack posts.
0/1 closing defence.
@[Hector] ]