I feel the pressure of skin against mine a split second before the jolt of bone against bone. There is pain on both sides of this line, but as I am used to throwing my weight around, I am prepared to handle the jarring of my body as it collides with his. Note's slender figure gives in comparison to mine, the momentum of my body colliding with his and sending him backward, even as my teeth are unleashed like ravenous beasts at his neck. The clutch loosely against the skin that yields away from me, leaving little damage on the neck of Note, hairs crowding my mouth unpleasantly, but nevertheless causes an shock in my own jaw as our bodies meet. Even before my head retreats, I feel the motion of his neck downward since I cannot rely on my sight as easily in this poor lighting, craning around my own, and instead of fleeing away from Note, I slam my weight backwards onto my hooves, allowing my front end to be pulled up into a half-rear that as I twist my body farther left. I was not foolish enough to be caught in a rear during battle while my opponent was still on the ground and fully aware of my presence.

There is no place more dangerous in battle than kept so precariously on your back legs while your enemy takes hits at you as though you are nothing but a weak leaf clinging desperately to the smallest branch of the tree. Even against my friend, Note, a soldier of my own and kin in my heart, there is no room for such an eerie mistake.

His bite lands, but I attempt to throw my weight up into his mouth to cause him much more injury, halting his ability to clamp onto a portion of my skin by minimizing the momentum of the attack and filling his jaws with the thick musculature of my left shoulder, feeling the sting of the extra damage upon the area. After all, I had just finished abusing the poor thing by using it as my own personal battering ram. Now, dull teeth clash against my frame, causing no cuts and leaving little behind except small individual bruises on top of an aching shoulder - oh, and spit. Lots of spit. I wonder absently in Note has a drooling problem, but it is little more than an after thought.

My semi-rear is instead of pushed back downward to the ground driven forward, a lunge toward the stallion even as his front end begins to lift easily from the ground. The nimble ability of his thin frame compared to mine increases his speed, making his movements swifter. Unfortunately for Note, his speed would not be an advantage today. The split second it takes me to shift my weight from my haunches back toward my shoulders is long enough for him to begin his ascent, one that maybe end shorter than he intended. I drive my figure forward, curling my neck down and toward the left, my jaw resting on my battered shoulder, my right aiming for the soft flesh of his exposed belly with all of the forward momentum I could manage in these close quarters.

Note was my brother, but even family must be taught lessons the hard way at times. Better I than an enemy leave him splayed across the floor of the world. Even as I feel his hooves at the very top of my barrel, dangerously close to my spine, leaving small gashes, bruises, and a wake of pain that comes out in a rough grunt from my lips, I am hoping to feel the slam of his body against mine and the gentle brush of his hooves as they slide away from my figure as his form topples toward the ground. Allow me to teach you why I am the Commander.
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[ 2/2; 672 words. ]