Madness, the foul thrill of it… it descends upon him; grows from the churned earth he touches. It drowns his lungs with every breath in, each desperate gasp as he clings to the last of his crumbling innocence. It spreads like corrosive fog through his core, travels through the network of spewing, sucking veins like disease, hungry, wicked, pulsing - alive. He feels internal lull as beta-endorphins feed through his bloodstream - as his conscience withdraws; he drowns in the delicious drunkenness of adrenaline, of   this ridiculous new fearlessness, and teeters in his childish stupor. He is a warrior, it is his destiny - and he folds to the passion of his pain like a flower fails before the moon.

For a moment, his world falls dark.

The creature is savage, barbarous, relentless, and he is still coming. The stallion’s eyes are flashing, but for a tick in time. Bubbling tears gush from quavering, blonde-lashed rims, blood-shot cauldrons, seem (in those crawling seconds), to bleed the very terror that is ravaging his core, his soul. They fix hazily upon the toy princess just beyond reach of the devil, of himself; plummet dizzyingly to her darling, matchstick legs that seem unwilling to whisk her any further away to safety. The forest is still spinning, a crazed blur of bloody fury, flying feathers, strung saliva, and it is intoxicating, horrifying! He is wobbly as he pauses to catch his breath properly and lungs finally find their fill - oxygen brings him back to life.

His mind is clearing.

The hunter is circling.

Quickly move wretched legs, as the cruel cat stalks wide around his victim, wounded and vulnerable; a bird, grounded. The stallion indulges on a cocktail of hormones though, they feed him strength, clarity, and he finds himself watching with narrowed eyes from the middle of the ring. It is a fight to the death, without a doubt. Heavy knees tremble wildly as he begins to turn - though he is crippled, cumbersome, and his circle is slow. Hate is a thing he has not before known, but seeds root steadily and vines thicken through the chambers of his heart - the stranger… the fiend, will die. Rage is now a wildfire within him.

‘Destiny’, his thoughts chant. ‘Die!’

Aqua stare finds the monster’s thighs and notes the skin curve against cunning springs beneath - he is aware, if nothing else. He is learning. Those glistening, veteran eyes boar down viciously, and flesh tingles at their touch; the hero flinches, blinks, and the other is already airborne. Ghastly teeth, pristine blades with sickening tips, catch his attention and he braces, thinks - drives back down the surge of rude panic inside. Not this time. The predator is flying forward with those knives unleashed, and his quarry is ready; driving weight down, back… surviving. Haunches release with bursting power, propelling the determined horse left (because he cannot meet his foe head-on), and the right wing, now crimson with blood, fans out brazenly. He endeavours to fill those jaws, eyes, that evil face, with only the bristle of his feather.

Riding the same wave of momentum, he bends, curls, and seeks the same attack that found success before - he is raw, novice. His bulk hangs heavily left, freeing mostly the torn shoulder from exertion; still it churns out blood, and the repulsive stench is turning his gut. Visible is the limp with every stubborn stride. Once again, his forehand stiffens down (though not with quite the same capacity) and hind hooves gather into a backwards punt; they thrust in reverse below a flurry of filthy hair, desperate to feel that nauseating beef a second time.