The darkness is an immense monster, and she fancies she can hear it breathe, lungs rasping as it watches with hungry eyes, waiting to swallow her in its enormous gullet. Beneath her hooves, the snow is crusted and slick, covered in a thin sheet of ice- below that, wet, soft snow that makes for treacherous footing. If the snow were deeper, if she stood on the mountains tall, to trip into this could send her drowning in cold white, unable to flounder her way back to the surface.

A gleam of washed-out golden light illuminates the stallion; the shadows dance, dark beauty on the once-crisp snow, some of it now covered unpleasantly with animal piss and shit. For a moment all she can see is the brilliant gold in his amber eyes, the heavy grunt as he forces himself upwards, balancing precariously on hind legs- then her hind hooves make sharp contact with the hard bone of his shins. A surge of electric joy sings its sweet, heart-rousing melody. She wants to break him, the cowgirl wrangling the wild mustang; bend his head and bow his neck to her. Hespera is passionate, in everything she does; she is not one to go half-assed into something. But he is clever and sharp and swift, and she is new and feels quite often young and foolish in her childish body. She can only hope she may best him.

Teeth bared, ears pinned, forelock full of tangled pearl snarls, the unicorn reaches out to no avail with her ivories, meeting only empty air as the grullo stallion drops, crumbling in a way that’s somehow graceful and smooth. Snapping around swiftly, she drops onto her knees, trying to imitate the beauty he has captured in his movement, the yellow light a sickly shade on her ebony coat, glistening on the wet skin covering her delicate joints as she bows in return.

As her teeth grasp onto the hard flesh of his extravagantly muscled leg, his own ivories grab hold of her crest. Even as blood and thin hairs coat her tongue, creating a foul concoction of a taste, she jerks back with a hiss, his teeth pulling a lock of silver mane free alongside flesh. Her lips do not part to give a gasp of pain; instead she is stoic and silent, her crest aching where skin was scraped away. It is her first battle scar on her coat of obsidian, the first wound to mark her coat for what she is- a stubborn and resolute fighter, even when she has no hope of prevailing.

Is this the battle that she will fail? Will it be the first battle she will not win?

From his perch in the tree, Otienu flinches, hurting for his companion, even despite the only mild severity of the wound. It is not good, how soft her heart has become for the gray griffon- not good at all. Yet she urges him to remain there on his perch, not wishing for him to meddle in her affairs. One day they would fight together, when he was older, stronger, and quicker with his wings. Not today, though; not today.

It is difficult to move from bow to rear, so she does not try. Instead, the shaggy mare barrels forward, head tucked neatly over throatlatch, horn shifted to the side, and rather than attempting to meet him in the air, she aims to smack into his stomach, toppling him over onto his flank, or at least, pushing the twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh off balance. The stormchild did not know if it would work. She knew that she was tempting fate; knew that if he were to land on her, something terrible might happen. Fear and determination ran through her stubborn head. No way she would back out now, even when Otienu’s terror for her safety practically scalded her with its ferocity.

She could not accelerate as quickly or swiftly as she would like. Snow was freezing her legs, kicked up onto her shoulders. He was taller than her, bigger than her despite his elegant build- and who knew what powers he might possess and put into his nefarious use? So far, he had seemed decent, gentleman-like enough. Yet this was Helovia.

What would Daermaethor say?

Hespera could almost imagine his carved white eyes staring into hers. If only he was still with her. If only the herd had accepted her.

Fucking mortals.

It is all this rage and anger she fuels into her charge, the fury that batters her. The fear of failure, the anguish of her father torn from her, of Tarleton’s disapproving face, his sneer and cruel smile. All te heartbreak of her past.

It would be shame if her courageous- and foolish- charge failed.