EREBOS

Well, this could’ve been a mistake.
 
Initially, the exuberance, the boyish charms, had run away with him, the need to fight, to practice, to skirmish with his own comrades settled and rasped their notions amidst his skull until there was only havoc and ruin. He hadn’t much forethought to the possibility of his imminent failure; only the ruthless endeavors of a General who wanted his flock, his brethren, to succeed.
 
He’d studied her once before, when she’d been led into their confines and pronounced as a newfound soldier, because her figure had been sculpted for bloodshed. She had the tools of war at her disposal; rapiers, broad, wide shoulders, muscles and mass toned together to make her a malicious machine. Wessex was far more capable of hammering away at her enemy than himself; he’d been granted might and menace through his heritage, but his strength couldn’t conquer hers.
 
So he’d relied on cunning, on the devious, devil-riddled mind brewing between gallant smiles and intrepid dreams, choosing a spot where the sand could engulf, swallow, and consume her strength – but he realized he’d have the same dilemma too. He’d just have to outrun her, outlast her, and endure because he was made of perseverance and defiance, a nefarious tenacity crawling right down into his bones.
 
But when the jests wore away, when she understood his ploys and schemes, the fray was on. There was no room for quips, jokes, or snickers, for his gaze narrowed, watched her circle, adjust her tempo, trying to formulate a plot while she did the same. Orsino sighed nearby, fed up with the wait, grumbling through their connection (get on with it, already).
 
She did – and it was in those first few pivotal moments he felt everything go quickly awry. He shot forward, intending to sprint over the sand, lighter than her, faster than her, capable of springing into action, of fleeing, of escaping the inevitable plunge of pain.
 
The dunes, however, had an alternative plan, and no sooner had he maneuvered into the sun’s blinding rays, did his right front hoof catch on something (a shell, a rock?), and his speed floundered, grounded to a halt, body stumbling forward, bumbling around like an inept baboon, some child who’d yet to find their legs. The unknown enemy drew a slight knick, a graze, against his right knee, and he snorted, stupefied, and embarrassed by the fiasco (Orsino even more so, grumbling heresy and curses along their bond).
 
But it only grew worse.
 
His escape had floundered beautifully, granting Wessex ample opportunity to commit her assault. The weight of her hooves, potent, pernicious, and lethal, slammed along the right side of his croup in a dazzling array of agony and misery, twisting over his mind so he felt nothing else but the treacherous onslaught. He choked back a cry, tried to stop the harsh intake of breath, and beat away the anarchic wake of his heart (remembering only disaster in a storm, in a maze, caught between monsters and mayhem, torn asunder in the middle of the night). The boy, the youth, the idiotic General ambled forward a few feet to ensure he still could, and when reality pummeled him head-on, he wondered just how ineffectual he looked to one of his own.
 
The deep, pulsing bruise ached, wretched and harsh, and he knew he’d been slowed down, an advantage already taken away by her, by the sand, and by his ineptitude. Just like that, he’d been stripped down again, so stupid, so useless, never enough -
 
Orsino pulsed through them, irritated, exasperated, screeching (don’t you dare start that again!), and launched his own tirade, urging the General to follow, to buck up, to be something other than an empty title.
 
The kitsune urged, and the prince responded, but only because sedition ran through him, coursed through his veins, pervaded through his soul.
 
His motions were already muddied, slowed, hindered, but he followed the plan, watched as Orsino attempted to draw along Wessex’s left side, while Erebos persisted from the right, trying to turn towards her shoulder. His assault wasn’t deadly force or unholy fervency, ivories extended in attempt to bite, but Orsino’s was another thing altogether. Perhaps out of rage, out of frustration, out of malice and wrath, the sable kitsune tried to leap at her left flank, claws outstretched, canines eager to rip and tear. 

[1/3. 729 words.
* While trying to evade Wessex, Erebos stumbles over something in the sand (likely a rock), and gets a small cut on his right knee for his trouble.
* Incapable of escaping, Wessex’s hooves slam down on the right side of his croup, dealing out a heavy bruise and impairing his movements/speed.
* Orsino and Erebos attempt to launch a simultaneous attack: Erebos draws towards her right, intending to bite at her right shoulder. Orsino goes towards her left, trying to leap at her left flank, clawing and biting.]