For whatever it’s worth, his devious plan does come to fruition as Wessex feels her hooves sliding out from underneath her. She’s tossed her weight too far to her left in an attempt to avoid Erebos’s outstretched horn; a sinking sort of despair and desperation bubbles up forcefully inside her, erupting volcanically as a half-scream, half-growl of frustration. Luckily, Wessex catches and stabilizes herself before toppling over, but not before the General dances out of reach. She stands still for a moment, splay-legged across the silken sand, breathing heavily, and scowling back at him from beneath heavy brows and heavier horns. It’s really Orsino she’s most mad about, for she could justify hitting Erebos hard; as devilish, conniving, and warped as the kitsune is, she cannot bring herself to attempt a well-aimed kick at him. Briefly, she wishes she had a companion - a battling comrade to make the numbers even and take on pesky annoyances while she focuses solely on the true opponent.

So she’s at a disadvantage due to lack of a companion and then the anger directs itself towards her own body. She knows it was bound to happen - this sand trap of sorts - and though a multitude of curse words (enough to make a sailor proud) run through her discourteous mind, she takes that moment to gather herself. How the fuck did she miss him completely? Erebos seems to be doing the same sort of regrouping, though quite honestly, she’s surprised he hasn’t taken off down the beach by now, using all that speed and endurance against her. Ah, well, his loss, she thinks, until he snakes back toward her with his particularly sharp-looking horn lowered and at the ready.

That is another area in which her superior has an advantage. Wessex may possess more horns, but unless her opponent is on one of her sides, she cannot use them. Her horns reach outward, away from her face, framing it in an impressive array of crimson-tipped weapons - which is useful for intimidation and posturing, but they cannot be directed before her, used as a rapier or to keep danger at bay. No, she must draw it in, closer and closer until she can lunge forwards and lacerate from an unexpected angle. Hey, at least they were sharp, unlike useless, curling, circular ram horns or velvet-covered reindeer antlers.

He advances like a cat on the prowl, searching for what she imagines is some sort of weakness. Lizard eyes follow his movements, pushing the stinging in her haunch to the back of her mind. While the bruising on her shoulder is present, it is not enough pain to hinder movement. Oh, it would ache and be tender come morning, and she will have to coax the stiff, battered muscle to life - seek out salves from a healer - and perhaps take a bath in the hot springs. But her injuries are not quite like the blow she’d landed on the General’s hip, and she hopes it might hinder his speed; alas, they are also soldiers, and she is sure his adrenaline surges likes hers does, making them stronger and faster in the moment. She lowers her head to mimic him, snaking it back and forth to menace his advance with her own set of daggers, hooves dancing to try and keep him either before her or at a slight angle - no more than forty-five degrees. Wessex will not be caught napping. They seem to move much more slowly now, two water dancers waiting for the other to make the first move.

Ah, but he is already too close, too quick for Wessex, and when he makes his move she cannot fully dodge his dangerous tip. Perhaps she underestimated the length or his skill in wielding it, his speed despite his injury, but the blue-black stallion is able to dart close enough to her right side to strike. Her heavy hooves side-step, gripping as firmly as they can in the slippery sand, but even as she moves away, his horn draws a dark line across the meaty part of her thigh. Her hindquarters swing away, but not before dark red blood wells out and Wessex gasps sharply in pain. Lungs suck in air while the torment from split flesh shoots down her leg like white fire, igniting something fierce within her dragon-tattooed chest.

With a great, savage cry she propels herself forward, curving her body around to whip her head against his left side, hoping to either puncture his muscles as a literal thorn in his side, or draw several lines down the length of his body. Let the sand be splattered with drops of both their blood; her own now lies steaming on the white-gold granules.