Pride. It had led Cirrus astray in the past too. Her soul yearned for its connection with Sitka, cried out for it, but without his soul there to buffer her own, her pride took charge, and her actions became controlled by the brash, reckless filly that had no-one there to tell her when she was behaving poorly. Sitka had stepped up when there was no-one else, he was the rock that held the cloud-girl upright. He had been what held her together, what made her fit into the role of a Healer.

As she tasted the metallic saltiness of blood on her lips, she sealed her fate as a warrior. As she felt the jarring impact of her strong legs bashing their hard hooves against the chest of the brute, she waved farewell to all thoughts of becoming a healer ever again. Words were never her forte, she had never bothered pretending that they were, and somewhere inside she was thoroughly amused by the fact that this Chancellor, this politician so quickly rose to the occasion she thrust upon him. There was a small acknowledgement of respect for him - he didn't just turn and run, but nor did he see her initial attack coming at all. That she had taken him by surprise showed his potentially fatal flaw - in Helovia, only the strongest survived, and the strongest were so often defined by their ability to defeat the weakest.

He is swift to retaliate, and with an underlying satisfaction she saw in her peripheral vision the motion of his pristine body rising into a rear. She scrambled forward in the sands, also darting to her left, teeth grinding as she is introduced to the sharpened edge of his left fore-hoof against the plush flesh of her right thigh. It strikes heavily, its power fuelled by his bodyweight, thumping firmly just below the point of her hip - a fortunate thing, really, for had it struck her hip directly it might have caused deeper bruising of her pelvis. As it was, the angle of her thigh allowed the blow to slide down - covering more surface area, but with less deep damage (though the girl hardly thanked him for that). It hurt like a bitch, and it was with a slightly limping step that she continued on her path forward and away from him and his flailing hooves.

Vague annoyance at the sand rises within the girl, and with a heaving breath she tries to clear it from her throat and lungs. Her own motions combined with the beating of his wings had caused a veritable sandstorm, a flurry of red dirt that stained her otherwise-sunny-blue hide in varying shades of orange, white and clay-brown. She had no cuts for the dirt to taunt and sting, but still as the clumps of it lashed against her thin, summery coat she felt the sensation of pin-needles running across her body. Baby-blue eyes blink furiously to maintain vision, tears forming, clumping the sand upon her eyelashes. She wonders if this stallion knew that he was impairing his own vision as well as hers, and wondered just what he was intending to do amidst this dusty arena they both had generated.

The girl attempts to locate the dark, tri-hued stallion amongst the dust, sensing more than seeing his presence somewhere to her left. In a fluid motion the girl latches onto the hard, wooden shaft of her spear, and without hesitation, whirls it, silver-arrowed end first, towards the masculine mass. She had pretty fine aim usually, but that was in conditions where she could see straight, and one's opponent's wings weren't messing with her trajectory. She hoped for it to lodge itself in the his left side, maybe it would glance off his flanks or even be deflected by his wings - it didn't matter to her, really, for it was only a distraction.

Her true course of action was to turn left, sharply, and propel herself forward as fast as her sturdy (albeit aching) legs could carry her. Hoping this would put herself into a direct path into Bucephalus once more, she too unfurled her wings, and upon nearing him, leapt into the skies, attempting to lash out with her fore-hooves on her way past his head. Should she hear a gratifying clunk of hoof-against-skull, the girl would be very pleased indeed.

"Come get me!" she shouted, mockery applied with a generous coating, laughter ringing in her musical voice.


[ ooc ::
745 words according to MS Word.
2/4 attack posts
0/1 closing defence
@[Bucephalus] ]