Your muscles are warm and supple, moving easily as you stretch your legs, never stopping, never waiting. Who will come? The fibrous strands of your muscles quiver in anticipation, twitching in impatience, aching with the memories of bruises long gone, waiting for new contusions that will allow them to be better than they were before. Improvement does not come without pain; betterment does not come without work. You will know pain and you will work. You will come out victorious and you will grow ever stronger- a war machine that does not know how to stop until he is too old and broken to be of use any longer.

Still… why do you even fight any longer? Why push your already damaged body through pain it should not have to endure, through scratches and lacerations that will mean nothing come the end of your life? There is no rhyme or reason to your actions, no explanation to be found by searching through the synapses of your brain. You were born a fighter, raised a fighter, and when you fell to your addiction you were forced to be a fighter. Defending your honor (if you ever had any) was not an easy task and you learned quickly how to use your weight against your opponents; how to be mean and vicious, how to take no prisoners, to take lives instead of allowing surrender, if that was what was needed.

Nobody questions your honor now, though. Nobody mocks you for your habit or scorns you for your choices. They leave you alone, sequestered in the back alleys of your forest home, only Snowflake and the children coming to check on you. So, really, why do you still need to fight? Why do you continue to batter and break yourself? Perhaps it is because fighting is all you have anymore. You’re too old to change, too stuck your ways to become a different horse. You fight because it is the only thing you’re good at.

A scream answers the demand you had made, causing your muscles to jump to attention. That furious cry, that sound, that call in the dark… The locoweed swirling in your brain muddles the voice and you can’t exactly place it, but you whirl on massive hooves regardless, trying to find the source of the sound. It mixes with the crashing waves, the call of sea birds, the rustle of long beach grasses, and the gentle chirps of crickets in the night, so that pinpointing the origin of the cry becomes difficult.

The thunder of hooves against sand near you makes you agitated. It is probably only a second that you are blind in the night, but that second seems like eternity when you do not know from whence your assailant comes. It’s enough time for your brain to conjure wild images, your common sense fighting against your imagination as you try to determine if this is some wild beast of the night or a more predictable opponent.

A spark of moonlight against a pale horn finally answers your dilemma.

Too late, you push against the sand, trying to escape the inevitable destruction that this horn seeks to cause you. Too late, your body surges forward, attempting to dive past the onslaught that the pointed tip promises. You catch a flash of pastel hair as the horn digs into your left thigh, dragging backwards towards your tail, and you think you know, even through your intoxication, who this mystery woman is. She dares to challenge you? She’s so small and weak. A thief has no place on a warrior’s field. A barking sound- both pain and mocking- escapes your lips as you feel your flesh slice open. Your thigh tightens as nerves fire in response to the destruction. Your reaction is as much instinct as it is pre-meditated.

Hooves rise from the sand, bucking out, horseshoes glinting under the moonlight, reaching for Pastel, hoping she will continue past you, and that your feet will find purchase on her flesh. Your kick with your left limb is weaker than the right, your power hindered by the laceration that is now pouring blood down your left hind leg. The attack was so sudden and you are still green from lack of practice; you find that you need a moment to gather yourself- a feeling that scares you because you have not known it for so long. As your hooves touch down once more on the sand, you attempt to assault Pastel with your anemia magic, to slow her down and give you enough to gather yourself.

Spinning around again, you search for her through the darkness, injured limb cocked so that you’re not placing weight on it. Already, your breath comes quicker. Perhaps this will be a suitable test after all.

---

@[Hotaru]
Post| 1/3
WC| 800
OOC|
:: [Magic: DarkxWater (U) | Able to burst red blood cells, causing reduced hemoglobin levels therefore signs of anemia and oxygen deprivation and also damage platelets]
:: [Restrictions | Symptoms include muscle cramping, shortness of breath, increased heart rate, disorientation and causes bruising and internal bleeding for 30 seconds]