A grunt rolled through his chest, as realisation settled upon his countenance that he was unsuccessful in his initial strike against this foe. Grimalkin's antlers came across no interference, no barriers, he did not feel the satisfying crunch of antler against flesh - which in a way, saved him from a possible strain or ache as his neck would have had to absorb the impact. As it was, the chocolate steed continued careening past this titan, a behemoth in his own rights finding his footing in the sodden earth below. The sand was churned and messy, the weight of his drenched feathers causing extra drag that he was constantly working to overcome. As long as he maintained his momentum, like a juggernaut, his destructive path would only be interrupted by resistance, by a force greater than his own power.

The heart within the steed's chest picked up its rate, pulsing and pumping precious life-fuel across his body. It was not until a flash of ice showered down ahead that the adrenaline made its appearance - and he recalled the things he had seen before, and both wondered at and cursed their existence. Dragons, he growled to himself, though he was only familiar with the traditional belief that dragons meant fire, not frost…

So it is with a bit of confusion that his feet met the icy ground, crunching heavily and slipping as all four feet struggled for purchase - his weight caused the icy to break and sink into the sand beneath soon enough, he blessed the sodden, thick feathering that clung to his legs, for without it he surely would have sliced his fetlocks on the shards of ice. His momentum was interrupted, and just as he found his balance once more he was faced with the looming hulk of Volterra to his left.

A savage snarl appeared on his maw as he scrambled his legs beneath him, urging them to move desperately. He was grateful, for the sand beneath allows the ice to shift and break as his colossal weight trampled over it; he found purchase again relatively swiftly, and made to resume his juggernaut's rampage.

He would not fall, he would not bow to his foe, no matter how great, strong and powerful Volterra proved to be. Grimalkin was a stubborn brute, proud and desperate to prove his capabilities to himself and the herd he had left behind. I will go north, he hummed in his mind, I will return to them a victor, he grit his teeth in grim determination. Haunches flexed, bulging muscles pushed the stallion forward as his hooves grappled at the icy sand below, even as the pale forelegs of Volterra crashed down. Close, he thought, too close, he winced as he felt the edge of Volterra's left foreleg clip his generous buttock, a bruise sure to rise swiftly and give Grimalkin an ache that would take a week to get over.

Grimalkin's mind didn't stop, it kept churning, his eyes trained themselves as best they could upon the giant that was, while he came crashing down, behind him. In a snap decision, Grimalkin prayed that the dark behemoth would fall prey to his own trap and be slowed by the icy arena he had his dragon construct, and therefore allow his next strike to hit. Crown lowered, a counterweight as the back end of his body rose. Hocks were bunched up tight, coiled and ready to unleash all their strength once they reached a height that would put his hooves at the level of Volterra's chest. Then, suddenly, they uncoiled, releasing a great amount of energy in one foul swoop - a double-barrel kick delivered by his wet, slippery but still sharp hooves, aimed at the left side of his foe's chest, for that was what he guessed was nearest to him after Volterra's latest attempt to leave a mark upon his own chocolate self.

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@Volterra
653 words
Attack 2/3
Closing defence 0/1

colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart