When the powerful haunches push off, taking you into the air, you abandon all control to the fates, and time slows to a trickle - that's when you can kick yourself about the marvelous idea to leap through the air to collide with a Pegasus.

The moment he'd left the earth behind was the moment there was no going back. The tip of his spiraled horn embedded itself in flesh, but instead of piercing, it skidded out towards the right, leaving a gash swelling red with blood. Bodies smacked together, his head thrown clear and more or less into JAYDAN's wing before they went spinning down together. Time sped up again, a frenzy of movements, the sickening snap of a bone - for a moment, Mauja feared that it was his, but he felt whole despite the shudders traveling up his legs. Landing, somehow on neither Jaydan nor Deimos, Mauja stumbled and staggered, joints complaining as they absorbed the shock. A shaking snort left his nostrils in a plume of white. What idiot survived being burnt, just to try and kill himself with foolish, grandiose movements?

The Edge King, apparently.

Digging his left hind into the soft ground he spun around to face his attacker, who was charging, one wing dragging, eyes mad, pained. The stench of blood was thick in the air around him, something futile and hopeless in this vicious charge, and Mauja began to turn his hindquarters to the right. Madmen. He pushed back, kicking up onto his haunches, twisting to become perpendicular to the birdbrain's path. The flare of a wing only made him toss his head higher, leaning back further to avoid it, and the horn scraped a stinging path across his bared cannons. It was hard to find purchase there, but the thin skin peeled back before the onslaught, filling up with red. As Jaydan passed and slammed on the brakes, the wing slammed into Mauja's head and with a muffled grunt he tried to fall back onto the ground, to pass under it. The tangle of feathers obscured his vision - breathe! - and all of a sudden he saw the mist again and Jaydan's hindquarters were pressing against his barrel. The first kick went under his belly, and having no intention of standing there and getting his right legs kicked off, Mauja jerked sideways. The next kick grazed his forearm, and, hissing, Mauja spun further left and tore off a few steps in a canter.

The ground trembled slightly as VIKRAM's bulk touched down again. There was no mistaking which way that draconic head was turned, and with a disbelieving snarl - how could he know? - Mauja's eyes sought a way out. A way away. The acrid stink of fire was already thick in the air, and every instinct screamed at him to run.

Fear lent him strength, a burst he had not expected - or perhaps it was merely a lack of thinking. Light bloomed in the hazy twilight, orange and cruel, flickering, hungry. Wide-eyed, his eyes reflecting fire, Mauja stared at the oncoming doom.
Something cold, deep in the earth, answered his soul's frenetic pulling. Three thick, broad spikes of ice soared upwards, and formed a solid wall in front of the King. The burst of fire slammed into its surface, hot but without any substance to make it last. The ice blackened but held, a wave of heat rushing around its sides to lap at the King's hide - uncomfortable, harmless.

He felt like breaking down, sobbing and babbling, to hide his face in the chilled mud and moss. There was too much fire here.

Fire had ever been his doom, and even though the sturdy wall of ice protected him from becoming an easy target for the horsedragon's snapping teeth, Mauja wasn't safe. No, no, never safe from the fires of hell.

From above it came, a stream, crackling, lighting the mist again. Crying out, the King leaped forward, painfully slamming his face against the ice before realizing he couldn't run through it. Quick on his feet he spun, and charged heedlessly, heading away, away from Deimos nefarious magic too. The dried skin on his back, roughly a Z pattern, cracked, though little blood escaped the cauterized blood vessels. The air smelled of blood and singed hair, of fear and death and fire. Of burnt flesh.

His body remembered the sensation of it crawling across his skin, into his ears, into his eyes. Shaking, shivering, he stumbled across a root and nearly fell to his knees, but instinct made him catch himself. The night around him was dark, and weary, the King turned his aching hind the way his face had been, and stared at the mass of bodies.

What had his family done to deserve this?

[ 800 ]
( avoids dying when he fell with Jaydan, derps off a few steps, turns to face him. swings his haunches right and rears, nearly perpendicular to Jaydan, and takes his horn across his cannons and a wing in the head. Jaydan's hindquarters come more at his barrel, first kicking missing, the second on his forearm as he's moving away, runs off from the rest. Due to the Champs prize he manages his magic one more time, creating a shield of ice to protect against Vikram's fire and teeth, before jumping facefirst into it when Fajira fires his butt. Wheels and runs off pretty much to the outskirt of the battlefield where he stops and stares. :< )

Mauja Frosthjärta

Just as he was tearing towards DESCARO, he felt a pinch to his flank. His head whipped towards the feeling, only to see FAELENE. At first, he thought she was actually trying to attack him. But that wasn't so. It seemed as if she was almost pulling him, trying to get him to leave the dark DESCARO alone. Did she really feel such concern for that brute? Didn't she see that mongrel try to rip his side open, even when he was only trying to protect her? He had risked his life for her, and now she was focused on protecting someone else. The stag pulled his golden frame away from Unicorn stallion DESCARO, just missing a blow from the dogs flailing hooves. He loped away, only to feel the sharp jolt of teeth on his thigh. He felt the flesh rip as AURELIUS bit just above his hock. Thankfully, the injury was not nearly as painful as the long wound on his side. With an annoyed grunt, he moved more quickly away from the pain. In the final moments of the battle, he turned to FAELENE. Bronze pools could only watch in resentment as she went to the fallen form of DESCARO. He was glad that the little beast was down, whether or not he was a friend of Faelene's hardly mattered now. He tried to throw a last look at FAELENE, dying to speak and somehow mend the ache in his chest, but it was not the time.

The palomino throws himself into a trot, painfully bearing weight on his bitten back leg. The black mare, TARES, was lying across the ground, bloodied. Feathered limbs stepped to the mare's side and stopped. He let his sooty muzzle down to brush her shoulder, trying to give her some indication that she was not alone. He was at a loss for words, merely standing next to this girl who had been an ally in the fray, one mahogany wing cast over her protectively. She was torn apart, and he did not know whether or not she would make it. He stood by her, waiting for a medic, for some sign of what to do. His gaze longed to rest on FAELENE again, but he kept his eyes away. She would only hurt him, more than any of the others could. The sooner he got that through his head, the better.


[Word Count: 423]
[ Leander feels Faelene bite/grab him, and pulls away from Descaro as he bucks, narrowly missing a blow from his hooves. He gets bitten by Aurelius, and though the injury is minor, it causes him pain when walking on the leg and weakens him further. He sees Tares, goes to stand by her, and waits for the battle to end.]

With the scent of scorched flesh and sizzling hair ripe in her nostrils the dragon returned to her bonded. She greeted him with a triumphant cry that didn't quite manage to conceal the anxiousness she felt at the sight of him, standing like a statue in the midst of a battlefield. Through some miracle their enemies had refrained from going after the obviously wounded horse, and as they together considered the battlefield through the eyes of the White dragon, it wasn't hard to see why. Through the mist and deepening shades of evening they perceived the sight and scent of numerous fires and the smoke it created - flames both real and illusionary, pillars of ice appearing and disappearing and shaded silhouettes of bodies moving in strange ways. In one cluster of tangling bodies it appeared as if the nature was dying. Fajira avoided the area, instincts whispering about death and darkness and the end of life, spreading from a source that contradictorily was alive. She couldn't explain it, and Lace didn't try to understand - for once he didn't feel like knowing about the source of the living death, but simply accepted the existence of the anomaly.

He felt numb. It was as if nothing existed but the pain, the fear and the scent of blood that hung thick in the air. In some ways he had escaped without much injury, because the silver coat and the gilded markings that gleamed upon the back was unmarred, only sporting a light coating of sweat and dust that made it look dull. But in a different sense, he had payed a heavy price for his participation in this battle. With a broken leg his future had suddenly become uncertain, and his survival depended heavily upon whether or not the Qian would prevail. Their numbers had been great, but the Edge herd had fought back fiercely and nothing was certain - as always in war. If through some whim of the Gods they would be forced to retreat, they would find themselves stranded on enemy lands, a prisoner of war with no way of escaping. Fajira would fight for him if it came to that, but there was only so much she could do for him on her own.

Heaviness settled over him, the weight of uncertainty enough to crush him to the knees. But rather than succumbing to it, Lace remained standing, the head held high and eyes facing forward, into the mist of the realm that soon could be his home. There was nothing left to do now but to wait and pray for the safety of his comrades. Hopefully they would all see it through together.

Word count: 447
Had nothing to defend against, so just fluff.

It was getting darker. The sun was going to sleep and the sounds of the battle also started to die down. What had they accomplished? What had come out of this twilight battle? The beast didn’t know and he didn’t care, he would live wherever Mauja lived, but he knew he would have to leave as soon as he’d figured out if this place was still his home. He had to return to Snö!

The pet raised his head and scanned the battlefield. His sleek horn pointed towards the darkening skies and his red and yellow eyes had lost their glow. He flicked his ears and behind him his matted tail twitched as he searched for the pale body of Mauja. There! The king stood a good few yards away, his body battered and even burned. His face was unreadable as always, but as a good pet the black monster could sense his master’s despair. The beast angled his ears back, feeling regret that he hadn’t come to Mauja’s rescue, that he hadn’t manage to keep his master from getting hurt. A faint wine escaped him and he shook his head as if he could shake the feeling off.

The pet then picked up his feet and started trotting towards Mauja. His body was quite sore, but he never cared about pain, as long as he was able to stand and walk he carried on with his life. His mind never lingered on trivial things such as that, but then again his mind didn’t linger on anything for the most part.

[Ooc; “His face was unreadable as always, but as a good pet the black monster could sense his master’s despair.” --> Allowed by Neo.]

Korra

thrilling to think, poor child of sin - it was the dead who groaned within

The fighting ceased. Korra stepped away from the black stallion that she had attacked, KIARA’s blood dripping slowly from the tips of her antlers. The savage raised her head and flares her nostrils, feeling the acute agony of her bruised rib tenfold as her pulse started to slow down. The darkness is threatening to swallow up everything around her, and with a snort, she moves from her spot. Walking slowly, the barbarian tries to distinguish the victorious from the beaten, but all she sees are crippled and wounded silhouettes, faces she does not know, clad in blood and agony.

Outwardly, her damages were minor, but her hind leg felt stiff and her breathing was constricted by the pressure of her rib. The gash on her shoulder had bled quite a bit, making her fur sticky and stiff as it fried slowly, but it was the less serious of the beatings the savage had taken. There was not a fiber in her body that did not scream in exhaustion, but she forced herself on, looking out at the destruction, spotting a few fallen enemies that called a smirk to her face. The bloodlust seeped out of her slowly, the tainted lands under her feet and the stench of blood turning her stomach. This fight had been different than the ones she had participated in in the past; it had been her home and her herd that she had bled for, not a selfish desire of freedom or to prove her power. They had been attacked by intruders, and they had fought bravely, she thought; victory was the only option.

Brown globes found the form of her pale chief, turning her gait in his direction; in any other direction, she would have disappeared back into the woods from where she came, and she could not tell why it was not the case this time. Approaching, she looked into his eyes, and what she saw unsettled her. In her own eyes were a stern, morose look that said it all; this war had cost dearly, but no matter the outcome, Mauja was not to doubt her alliance. Even if these hornless and blood traitors should win their home, she would stand next to her pale king and help him win it all back when they had gathered the strength. Loyalty was in her withered heart, and Mauja was the one who had made himself worthy of it.

[404 words]

L E N A
tomorrow will be kinder

The dust settled, and evening shifted into the horizon, veiling, shading, the bloody portals and apertures with Stygian facets. She stood along the threshold of cold armaments, seized and sieged by the cool clamor of crusades and conflict. Her eyes, once frozen from the perils of her own actions, once terrible, horrifying, fierce slits, softened, witnessed the motions of others as the chaos finally began to dissipate. Forms stilled or limped, gasping and prevailing over the sodden grounds, and Lena did nothing, too absorbed, too still. Her previous attack had apparently missed, and she didn’t know whether to be saddened or glorified by this aspect, to be rendered sorrowful that she couldn’t hinder another enemy, or glad that her lacerating sword hadn’t slashed at a fellow, aching soul. She allowed brief breaths to settle over her lungs, until they refused to coil into sobs, and she could manage to maintain an air of composure over the wounds of her brethren and the ailments fostered along her own nimble, lithe body. What had she committed in this fight for survival? What had she become in this noble pit of anguish, in this regal claim for supremacy, victory over the fated antagonists? What would she convert into now, when the warmth was gone from her soul and the bitter, rancorous onslaught of ferocity plunged its strength into her core? Would it happen again? Would she lose herself, in the throngs of battle and the acrimony of opponents?

She tried not to reflect further, directing her attention along those that she tried to defend. She noted Descaro’s crumpled silhouette, drained, tired, and wounded, but deserving the brief respite that the finale offered. The argent mare, Faelene, was a sentinel over him, guarding in the kindred spirit of conclusions and resolutions, when the world was still fragile but those woven by bond remained stuck, never losing their hold upon others. She could hear her own name prospered by the femme, tinged with worry and concern, and only then did Lena truly begin to move, fostering one tender step after another, to assuage, to relieve, the anxiety of a herd mate. With adrenaline gone, fired off and away from maneuvering, swindling cylinders, she was an aching, throbbing mess – limbs yearned to be left alone, screaming against the torrent of minute movements. Each moment of pain led to another, until she almost broke down again. In refusal, that stubborn, obstinate, unfurling tenacity, she continued onward, calm, composed, forever tranquil, ethereal. Before she could reach the two beckoning forms, Aurelius appeared. It was a great relief to see a friend, though scarred, bleeding and broken, materialize from the heathen raptures of war. They were still alive. They’d survived. They endured. She counted this as a blessing as she silently joined the others, refusing to hang her head, yet, still reeling from the whispered sentiments of ruthless blood curled within her veins, waiting.