His hooves hit, but whether they connect with their intended target or some other part of the palomino's anatomy, Volterra isn't certain. With his thick neck arched and head lowered to lend power to his hindquarters, he isn't looking at precisely what part of his foe he's managed to strike - he only cares that he has actually managed to hit, and has hopefully left some pain in his wake.

His satisfaction is shortlived. There are things that happen in battle - acts of God, acts of fate - that even the finest warrior cannot legislate for. When the titan withdraws his hindlegs to return them to the ground, he can't possibly know that they'll land in a particularly obnoxious patch of mud, churned and sloppy and deadly. He can't know that his diamond horseshoes, still quite smooth underneath, lack the grip of the hooves above them, that they'll choose this precise moment to bounce off the slimy sand instead of sinking into it and creating traction. He can't know that the devilish conditions he's so thrilled about will conspire to punish him for enjoying them, instead of fearing them.

He can't know any of these things, not until he feels himself falling.

His back feet, upon touching the ground, skid to their left with the momentum he'd used to pull them back from his cow kick. But, instead of stopping when they touch down, they continue to their left - and so does the rest of the stallion's back end. He throws his head up, wrestling for balance, jaws opening in a savage roar of fury, raging against his own helplessness as he fights to keep his balance. Fuck!! It's too late, and even though he manages to get his back legs back underneath his body, their grip on the ground is lost. They crumple beneath him and he finds himself sitting down, hind legs trapped under his weight and aching. His front end is still standing, and with a herculean bellow of effort he combines his erect forequarters with the colossal power of his hindquarters. He begins to lift his rear end back up, but even as he does so, he feels teeth bite down hard on the thick flesh of the right side of his rump. His tight, slick skin isn't pierced by the blunt teeth of his foe, but the bruise Grimalkin leaves in his wake is formidable, sending pain spearing through the hellion's body.

There's worse to come. Even as Volterra rises fully to his feet, he feels a burst of agony in the same area that's just been bitten. He doesn't need to look to know that he's just been gored by the unicorn's antlers, and he doesn't need his dragons' eyes to show him the great cuts that his opponent has engraved into his skin like constellations in the night sky.

Grimalkin's antlers push the giant's back end to its left again, and it takes a colossal effort for him to keep his hindlegs from crumpling beneath him once more. He thinks fast - instead of fighting Grimalkin's push, Volterra goes with it, throwing his forequarters to the right and allowing his aching, compromised hindquarters to slide to their left. This, he hopes, will bring his head within range of the palomino's right side, specifically the stifle area - because that's almost certainly where the bite would have landed on Volterra had the black's hindlegs not folded. The idea was a good one, and imitation is the highest form of flattery - swinging his head to its right, the beast aims a bite for that exact area on Grimalkin, hoping to sharply nip the skin and cause considerable pain.

At the same time, enraged by his bonded's plight, Vérzés dives downwards like a crimson arrow. He aims to land heavily on Grimalkin's back and dig all four sets of claws into the golden flesh beneath him, whilst his jaws snake forth to try and sink savage teeth into the area between the unicorn's withers. Vadir still refrains from helping - she has now mastered the elements somewhat, and is watching her bonded at work with considerable interest.

Despite the agony in his hindquarters, despite his anger at the slip that could well have cost him the fight, Volterra forces out a choked laugh as he withdraws his head from the attempted bite. "You fight well." It is a simple acknowledgement of a fine opponent, one there is no shame in losing to - although naturally the giant prays that the Gods will smile on him and make amends for forcing him to slip by giving him the victory. Perhaps the slide was just a test - to see how he coped with a sudden, impromptu quirk of fate.

He hopes he has passed.

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@ Grimalkin ! Great fight whit!

3/3 - 800 words