She really did need to stop fighting in forests.

The rush of success thrilled through her veins for a mere moment as her hooves struck true, but yet again, her Goliath proved more agile than his looks would present. Pastel hooves had only just pressed against the soft earth when the mammoth stallion whirled, flinging his back hooves out in a savage strike toward her chest. Eyes narrowed in the split second of anticipation before his shod hooves met her pristine white flesh, the pressure and impact smashing into her from the points of her shoulders to the lower end of her breast.

Breath whooshing from her lungs in a gasp, the dove bared her teeth in anger and pain, her rump and hocks scraping against the rough bark of a tree. Oh, how the joyous rage did flow beneath the onslaught of glittering-shoed hooves and tonnes of musculature. Orithia could already feel the smarting muscles of her chest begin to swell and spasm; had the towering stranger succeeded in hindering her movement so easily? Would she be hobbled against his might here between misted trees?

With a sharp hiss and a low grunt, the mare tucked her wings tighter against her barrel, the bruising mass of her chest pounding with each beat of her ashen heart. Her lips pressed together in a stubborn attempt to prevent words from sliding out; as venomous and hateful they would be, the serpentine mare knew that the behemoth would only add her anger to his sense of triumph. Teeth gritting and muscles about her rump and jaw tensing, Orithia eyed the deliciously sensitive spot between the stallion's thighs for a moment, knowing that beneath that thick tangle of tail, a gelding could be created. 

Victorious in this fight or no, there wasn't a stallion alive that could brag about his successes after being castrated by their opponent.

With a baleful grin, the pale maiden took a step closer, farther into the realm of likely injury and closer to the goal she had chosen. Her dished skull snaked forth toward her opponent's exposed backside, jaws agape and reaching toward her trophy. The muscles of her breast protested each movement with a vehemence that only proved to motivate the ferocious lass; her darling Goliath would pay dearly for the grievance he had stamped into her skin. There was a wild spark of vindictive glee within the mare's mind; his height may have been a disadvantage when reaching for his neck, but when lashing out at his manhood?

A lovely coincidence in placement.

The blushed pegasus had to resist the urge to laugh, she was not out of the woods - or maybe she should say 'tail?' - quite yet, and even if she could snip away a stallion's most prized possession, who was to say his retaliation wouldn't be her demise? In spite of this knowledge, the mare did not hesitate in her action, did not falter as the possibility of further massacre or defeat rushed toward her; for what else was there in battle than victory or loss? What else was there to live for if not the thrill of a win or the determination birthed by failure?

There was only one constant in the life of a warrior, a scrapper, a gods-be-damned serpent-tongued ex-whore-turned-shield-maiden, and it was insatiable. Many called it Blood Madness, others knew it as Berserk, Battle Drunk, Crazed, Fury Tranced, but those that waded through the life fraught with bruises and blood only knew its true moniker:

Alive.