The dragon’s screaming flight amidst the flurry of wind and snow make it difficult to discern one from the other, the wind as sharp in pitch as the flying snakes’ cries, forcing a single one of my ears to lift in an attempt to decipher the hidden whisper of their wings against the air. Their master and I meet amidst the high arch of their voices in the storm, his thundering bulk meeting with mine in a forward charge, as I’d expected from a guy like Volterra. I’ve seen him fight several times before (albeit against titanic, immortal beings), his fearlessness perhaps as brazen as my own.

My smile is wicked with delight as the smell of blood bites through the crisp cold of the flurries, and while my eyes are too narrowed to see the drip splatter of his crimson against the snow below, I imagine it as he pulls away from me, a big black blur amidst the silver wind. I’d half expected at least a grunt of pain, perhaps a squeal, but for all my desires he is silent, as if I’d only pulled a hair or two.

Tough son of a bitch, I can’t help but think, my haunches tautening as I attempt to pull away, knowing well enough the compensation coming for me – but as I come about, the white wall of snow suddenly becomes the same tone as the surrounding mountains.

God damn tables, I manage to think, putting all my brakes on so that snow flies erratically about beneath me, splattering in solid tear drops and circles against the wall Volterra has procured. My fore-hooves churn, the slick powder beneath me not the best sort of footing for a sudden stop, my neck craning my head and horn hard to the right to avoid impact (my chest some bare inch from the stone). For all the good my plans seemed to continue rightward, to use the momentum to pull me up and away, I fail.

Blessedly, the left hip he grabs with his teeth is lowered, bundled and prepared to send me away in a rightward jump, and it is quickly adorned with several small, dimpled bruises. Bright, each stab of his ivories is nothing in comparison to the explosion that sweeps my thoughts at the touch of his hooves.

Above the stifle, not quite against the bone, but not quite enough flesh to brace my brain against the starlight which sparkles, and the hot warmth that blooms at the force of the joint bowing inward ever so slightly. A grunt sounds from me, the snow stabs into my eyes, and its my turn to get mad as my left hind hoof pulls up involuntarily, hesitant to feel the weight of my body against it, the slightest of my mass applied to it agony as I attempt to complete my leap regardless. The smirk of delight at having sliced him open is replaced with a grimace that thinly veils my pain as I force the joint and muscles to move, attempting to take advantage of the lowered position of his face. It lacks power, but it does the job, clearing my front from the stone trap he’d summoned, but just barely so – gritting myself against what is surely to be as much a punishment to me as it is to Volterra, I pitch my weight forward in a counter attack, my hind legs darting out behind me twice in rapid succession, cautious of a full extension (and any subsequent self caused damage to my wounded leg), hopeful of the opportunity to kick him square in his stupid, hornless face, or at least to land a good knock on his chest or upper fore legs.

Ow, ow, ow, fucking ow, are my thoughts as all four hooves meet the snowy earth once more, the touch of my left hind to the soil perhaps only gaining agony as I force its use. My only hope is to fight my way through it, and hope that, eventually, it figures out that I don’t have time for its bullshit. It seems that it somewhat listens, anyway (or maybe I’m just being positive, for once), as I continue about in a limp-leap clockwise circle, hoping to again get my horn near him in an approach on what should be his right side (unless I’ve lost him in this shit storm weather). It should also keep my left side the hell away from him, concern for a secondary hit on my leg certainly fueling my strategy.

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