Själ

For having a mother as seductive and manipulative as Psyche was, Själ is surprisingly naive in the ways of man.  Her swaying hips and inviting smile are instinctual, but it is nothing more than an act.  She feels no heat from the stallion's hooded gaze, no desire pooling in her belly as a result of his appreciative growl.  Later, of course, she would take the time to wonder what that means, why there is nothing about this steed (as attractive as he is) that calls to her.  For now, it is enough that her attempt at distraction seems to have worked.  She acknowledges the stallion's reaction without reveling in it, all the while allowing her lashes to bat prettily against her cheeks to continue the facade.

Her kick towards his shoulder is well-timed, though his reaction is surprisingly quick, allowing him to avoid the worst of the blow.  Satisfaction slips a smug smile onto her features, but the feeling is short-lived:  the mare's hind legs touch down in wet sand, and what should have been a quick-and-easy getaway suddenly becomes awkward and sluggish.  Her hooves _sink into the slick surface, the ground sucking oddly at her hooves as she attempts to get out of range.  The feeling is unexpected.  She had known it would be slippery, had thought that she would be unbalanced, but this?  It was like the sand beneath her hooves was actively fighting against her.

And she'd only planned for one opponent.

Her distraction proves to be her downfall.  Her gait is uneven as she recovers from her kick, her mind focusing intently on simply not falling over.  The stallion is directly behind her, surging forward without slowing, and in the ensuing moment of confusion, she does not realize his tactic until it is too late.  Her movement stays steadily forward, for she hasn't the time to even attempt a dodge, much less plant her forelegs for another forceful kick to his chest.  Instead, his chest plows into her rump, shoving her forward and forcing her to scramble to remain upright.  Her front legs connect with the ground painfully, and she is vaguely aware that it is only the softness of the sand that has saved her from worse injury.  As it is, her cannons scream with the force of impact, a stabbing pain shooting into her shoulders with each step.

In her flailing, he manages to string a line of bites across her rump, his teeth seeming to come together harder with each additional nip.  She will have a lovely line of bruises at the dock of her tail to accompany the aching tendons in her forelegs.  Biting back the urge to squeal - she will not give him the satisfaction - the mare lunges a step to her left (OUCH, that fucking HURTS), flicking her tail irritably towards his ivory face (take that, you fucking ass).  One step, and then she plants her hind legs in the wet sand and twirls towards the stallion, hoping to end up with her body at a 90 degree angle to his.  At the same time, she aims her dual horns towards his left shoulder and pushes forward with her coiled hindquarters.

If he hasn't moved, her aim will be trained carefully on the muscular mass of his left shoulder.  If she connects, she will pierce the muscle and then flick her head up, hoping to slice him open to the bone.  If she is successful, she will stab spear cut him in an attempt to slow him down and prevent such a quick recovery from this attack.  She tries not to think about how close she is to his bulk.  Her move, like his, is not without risk, for she has placed her head within range of his kick or his bite.  But if she succeeds, she might just win enough time to scamper out of his way.  She might cause him to slow enough that she can give her battered forelegs a moments reprieve.

Whether she connects with the stallion or not, landing on them is going to be a bitch.

"Speak."
--Ansgar.--

Word Count :: 684
Attack :: 2/3

@Volterra