Irritable and snappy, Snö stood and waited, temper growing shorter as the time trickled by. For many hours had she patrolled the edge of the Dragon's Throat, a pale gleam of white light, sliding between the shadows at ease, avoiding the prying eyes of any guards manning the construction of the metal wall. It was painstaking, the waiting, far more than anything else, than even the final attack to attempt to get him home. The first time, the turncoat had evaded her, the idiot scoundrel. Yet this time, she was determined to reach him, to fetch him home to her mother and father, to make them proud of her. Yes, she may be Phantom now, to be trained in the art of shadows and stealth, but there was no reason to give up her fighting skills when she worked so hard to condition her body.

Valentine.

There was more than one reason for Snö to dislike him. He had gored Bacchus, her slave. Only she could harm Bacchus. At no time should anyone else hurt him unless she permitted it, and if it was good for the herd. Otherwise, anyone who dared lay hoof or horn on his tender flesh needed to be taught a lesson, one she or Tarak, the metal wolf under her cruel command, would happily enforce. When Snö had heard mother tell the Plague of him being a target, as a traitor who needed to be dealt with, she had, using her duties as a Plague member, immediately committed herself to the job. For several weeks she had taken her leave, trekking across the wild terrain. Out of all places, even the Veins of the Gods, the Dragon's bitter, dry Throat was the farthest from the cool, lovely land of the North, the stronghold of the unicorns.

The ghost tossed her head, swishing her tail and lashing out with her hind legs, the heat bothersome. Here, she stood on the delicate edge between Helovia's Heart, the Dragon's Throat, and the gawking forest leading towards the abandoned Veins of the Gods. Tall grass had shortened, scrubbed with sand that had drifted from the desert, with short, gnarled trees bowing down, near kissing the ground with their rustling leaves. The wind hissed, sending the coarse grains of sand stinging against hocks and the mane twisting and tousling. High above, the sun glowed, a pale white eye against a brilliant blue sky tossed with horse tail's clouds, combed thin through the heavy winds that must be raging.

It was more difficult than Snö would have believed, the life of a phantom. No, it was not slipping around and spying all the time. It had its own share of battles, short but bloody. Always did Snö covet position of warrior- she still did- but the Plague needed her to act as phantom with so few in that position. There were plenty of bash-and-whackers. They needed brains and clever thoughts, horses who well knew that surprise was nearly as important as strength. For a long time, Snö waited patiently, knowing that sooner or later the pale horse must leave his home, for whatever reason. Days dragged on... into a week or two. It was then she had attacked; and now she waited again, in the small patchwork place, growing tired of the second chance of ambush, but nevertheless prepared to wait.

It was then she thought she scented the white turncoat on the wind, and she inhaled deeply, letting out a ringing challenge. Snö was no stupid mare- she was ever so careful to make sure she was a fair distance away from the guards. For anyone listening, it would be more than clear she was... challenging his integrity. "Valentine! Face me, you yellow-bellied canker-licking red-assed tender-hearted scum-loving piece of traitor!" The ice princess cried. Her eyes flashed like cold, loveless ice. "Or you can come with me quietly, traitor."

[[4 posts each. 1 closing defence. Fighting style stealth- attempt to take capture of him. Takes place during high noon, about 24 degrees Celsius. Pretty warm because of the desert heat and lava heat. Take note this is not really in any territory, but rather where they intersect. Between DT, Helovia's Heart, and the forest leading to Veins of the Gods.]]

Snö's nostrils flared, drinking in his scent spun of desert dust and heat, of the sweat of other horses and salt. There was a strange peculiarity to it, his own personal scent; that of which cannot be explained to dull humans with their most poor sense of smell. Her ears swiveled forward, catching sound of the swine moving towards her. No respect did she hold for turncoats, the monstrous creatures who turned as quickly as a falling dime. Not only were they fools for thinking they would be left alone, but they were selfish. Snö, of course, was a somewhat selfish mare herself, yet she would, one day, be willing to sacrifice herself for the greater good. Even Psyche had begun to come to terms with that.

The elegant, pale mare sighed ever so softly at sound of Valentine's voice. Was he attempting to instigate a fury that blinded her? For if he was, he was going about it the wrong way. What might have insulted her was condemnation of her beautiful curvature and elegantly crafted features, her face chiseled of white marble and the white varnishing over sweet cinnamon chocolate. It would have angered her, to hear of her pale blue horn, sharpened to a deadly needle point, made laughter of, as would any part of her voluptuous body. Snö detested her mother, for betraying her youth- abandoning her, leaving her to set off on small, cloven hooves to try and find daddy in a land far, far away. Calling her ugly simply did not bother her. As for calling Mauja 'bastard', that did hit a sore spot, never that the white mare would admit it. For the FrostHeart had sired another, the hideous Temmen, with the slut Lotus. But still, one insult that hit home would not send her shrieking for his blood.

Yet perhaps his next insults were even more stupid than she would have expected from an idiot such as himself. They might be correct, in some cases- but you forget this is Snö, the ice princess born of the mighty lineage of Mauja and Psyche, born to racism and nothing else. It may have developed slowly, and it could not be denied. It was as much a part of her as her hooves and legs, her face and alicorn; she could not simply push it away, even if she desired to have an open mind. In any case, she did not want a mind open. It was firmly closed to the slanderous lies that Valentine spoke of. And coming from a traitor, any words did not hold weight to her glacial heart.

“Fool,” Snö said, in a tone so imperiously cold and condescending. “You are branded as traitor. Your words hold no weight to my ears, and you are nothing but, unfortunately, a mistake. Psyche, knowing the problems that may come of allowing you a free rein, has sent not just me, but others to retrieve you. If you do not come, not only will you place yourself in danger, but also your family. Sweethearts, foals, anyone a touch too close to you… you may be too thick-headed to understand this. In any case, I have given you your chance. I am not going to give you another. You have chosen your path to go down- to be crushed under the hooves of a pure blooded and pure minded one.” Each and every word was crafted with a diplomatic elegance, and tainted by her cold purity and hate of the one who laid horn upon her once slave. Even if she had gotten rid of him, he had been her property at the time, and nobody touched what was hers.

Snö raised her brow at sight of the stallion taking up such an easy, relaxed position, but that did not sway her attack. If she was to fail today, she would simply pick someone he could not resist but to follow back to the North. The white mare set her head downward, aiming her horn at his chest, and cantered straight on. Ten feet was really just one stride, but she put as much power behind it as she could; she launched herself to her left, carefully aiming a bite at his fleshy white neck, the dirt even under her hooves. Second she kicked out at his barrel, where the muscle and flesh was thin over bone to protect his heart. From there, the phantom moved past, then pivoted on her hindquarters, haunches to a tree, and launched herself back, moving to the right, which, unless he had turned, would be the same flank she had attacked earlier- this time, she aimed at his foreleg, the one closest to her, with her needle-point horn, in attempt to cut the muscle and send him crashing down.

[WC: 800 || Attack: 1/4 + 0/1 Closing]