This disgusting mutt will not get the better of him. His dirty blood will happily stain his hooves, his teeth, his horn that proudly signifies his better lineage. Even if that perfect crimson substance may stain the pure snow of his hind left leg, and possibly the disgusting walker of his opponent, the pain is worth it. He will win this, for his brethren, for the beautiful sinful angel he spied from the horizon, the soul he loved and possessed like a phantom, a ghost. Fire sears up his leg, it quakes and trembles like the mightiest of rages of the earth as it shakes and rattles like a mighty lion. Blood pours forth, nearly to the bone, sure to scar up the length of the long pillars that shoot him past the height of his prey. It spasms the muscles up his leg, quivering in his hindquarters, screaming and shuddering and demanding relief from his slimmer weight. In response he leans upon his right hind leg, taking nearly all weight off the injured one even as he used gravity to slam down hard on the left of Madyrn’s spine. The shock split up his legs as they scraped and tore down the massive beast’s left flank, the solid frame of his opponent one he’d never encountered before. Tolio had never fought a draft breed, and had also never battled in such a slick environment, and it was his downfall as, coming down towards the ground, bracing his right hind leg hard against the ground to steady himself, he saw that massive muscled shoulder shove towards him like a mountainside given the ability to move. A snarl sneaks upon his maw, angered at his own mistake, his own lack of experience in this field. He hates this nameless foe, this dirty hornless that dares to go up against him. The ingrate will either fall, or Tolio will leave his mark upon the behemoth with the rage of the devil that he suppresses beneath years of rigorous training.
There are no second place medals in war. Either you win, you lose, or you die.
Tolio intended to win.
The buff shoulder hits him hard, knocks the wind straight from his lungs, makes his vision swim and darken in patterns and clouds as the massive brute’s left shoulder caught hard a few inches past his left elbow, right against his ribs. As angry as he is at the blow, at the fact that it lands hard and solid in a way he cannot avoid or change, sure to bruise his ribs, he’s more than lucky that he was drawing down after his blow. Had he lingered any longer that high above the far older steed, he would have been knocked to the ground and the fight would have been over the moment those massive hooves targeted him once more. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches, and hopes with a sick vengeance that the old bastard wouldn't bounce back, wouldn't heal as quickly as Tolio would in his youth.
Right hind leg already hard against the ground to take the weight off his injured, spasming one, the shove still slides him across the earth and he leaves long trenches from where he is displaced from his original position. As he finally touches down halfway through the brutal connecting of bodies, large against lithe, he digs his bloody-colored forehooves into the earth, using the three legs available to him to push back against the slam that caught him so off-guard. His lungs struggle to bring air back in, wheezing; his left hind leg quakes and burns, and his forelegs ache softly from all the abuse of the mud. It flies up into his face, mercury eyes crinkling and squinting against the onslaught of thick liquid dirt. Disgusting, he muses, as it sprinkles the white of his face.
He struggles to inhale, lowers his crown, and pushes back hard instead of just bracing against the momentum. Aims his horn with a grimace towards the bastard’s left barrel and thigh. He will mark the psychotic warrior, will leave
something upon his skin. Bitterly, he hopes the sharp tip of his crown will leave a long gash across Madyrn’s left thigh. His body aches, but Tolio is still smug over the fact he had harmed the other stallion, that his back would twinge and ache with every movement long after the invasion ended. If he could suffer through the fire burning up his hind left leg and left ribs, he would leave this disgusting territory with his crown high and with blood upon his frame that did not belong solely to him. Equine blood or not, he would take pride in putting the dirty-blooded psycho in his place.
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Word Count: 800
Post: 3/4
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[O] I'll Burn the Heart Out of You [Invasion]
