When it doesn't? Not so much.

The behemoth doesn't expect his attack to be quite so successful, however, and as the mare slips and slides towards the floor he takes a moment to summon some sympathy for her. He remembers his fight with Seanan as if it was yesterday; the sheer humiliation of slipping on his ass, compounded by the added disgrace of having the much smaller stallion almost break his leg in half with a well-planted kick. There are few things as disconcerting as the sudden realization that you are fallible, that the ground can conspire against you and wrench you towards its muddy depths and turn the direction of a fight in a split second. One tiny, insignificant patch of soil can mean the difference between victory and defeat; glory and ignominy. It is the antithesis of the euphoric sensation of an attack hitting home; it is the part of fighting that Volterra hates, because his great confidence loathes taking any sort of a knock. Slipping or tripping in the middle of a battle is embarrassing, and he would not wish it on anybody.

Well...except for whatever person he happens to be fighting at that particular moment. Which, unfortunately for the white-faced mare, happens to be her.

His momentary sympathy for her is, indeed, momentary; this is a fight and such quirks of luck in his favour are to be respected and utilised. He's had his fair share of ill-fortune, so he's happy to seize any snatch of fate that he possibly can. This feeling of suck it up, sister is compounded when the unicorn's tail flicks across his face, tickling in his nostrils and making him sneeze obnoxiously; his head launches automatically upwards, which prevents the tail causing any damage save for the iron arrow to his dignity at the notion of making such a hideous noise in the middle of a battle.

Volterra is not one for self-preservation, but he knows she's bound to be wanting retribution in the aftermath of her faux pas. He throws his bulk backwards again, and his colossal size and weight actually aids the grip that his hooves have upon the slippery sand; they sink further down into it than the hooves of a lighter horse would, touching the more compact and less slick sand underneath. She twirls, elegant as a ballerina, and her horns just miss the solid mass of his shoulder due to his movement backwards. That is quite a relief; those savage weapons of hers could have ripped flesh from bone, cleaved muscle from sinew. The warlord is no stranger to pain, but he is not such a fool as to actively invite it, and he gives himself a little mental hi-five at his success in avoiding what could have been an agonising blow.

Now, it is his turn. His far-buried notions of chivalry demand that he leave the poor lass alone, call it a draw, allow her to hobble away without causing any more damage to those legs of hers. But Volterra is not a merciful man. This is a fight, and she knew what she signed up for when she chose to tangle with him. He will see this through to the bitter end, fuck his morals.

So he launches forwards again, seeking to face her head-on and hoping that she'll be too stunned by the failure of her attack to be ready to respond. He seeks to slam his giant chest into her own, hoping to unbalance her again; simultaneously his left forehoof lifts and kicks forwards, aiming to thud it into her right foreleg just below the knee. He doesn't use enough force to break or maim the limb, but hopes to cause further damage to the already-painful area and hopefully ensure a swift victory. It is in his best interests to end the fight quickly, because the heat is exhausting. Sweat trickles liberally down each plane of his body, and his legs feel like lead weights stuck in quicksand.

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Spar for @Sjal !

Sorry for replying so quickly just soijfifhfhfh all the muse for this fight <3

2/3 - 751 words