And so chaos begins.

The devious little shadow mare knew they would react. She knew there would be bloodshed. It was what she wanted, what she hoped to provoke out of them. She was not one to march to their borders, to unknown lands, to tire her army out before they reached their destination, and take from them lands she did not desire. Mirage desired only peace, but to achieve it, she had to begin a little chaos.

The plan to steal the foals had worked. They had spurred the Basin into action, demanded that they revealed to the world just how revolting they truly were with their racist ideals. Now it was time to win against this threat, to crush them on the lands they knew best, to present a united front and prove to them they were a powerhouse not to be reckoned with.

Of course, the plan did not go exactly as prescribed. Kri, the one leader of another herd she trusted as much as her own blood, had been captured. And as the scents of the North descended upon them, Mirage also detected the mountain aromas of the Foothills. That was another surprise, and one she hoped they would still be able to overcome. She certainly would be having discussions with the Grey after this was all said and done.. If she and her kin survived the onslaught first.

The dark little mare stood just within the borders of her home, with the mists dancing around her, the moon shining above her, and the trees sporadically placed across the area. The loam below was soft, not damp but with a covering of forest undergrowth settled atop it. A golden dragon lingered in an overhanging branch above the mare's tiara, as her golden eyes roamed the area. She knew they would come. And so she waited for them.

[ 311 words.
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Mirage awaits a challenger just within the northern border of her home.

They came.

It was a sinking realisation that settled in the depths of her stomach, as the mare sensed the onslaught of warriors arising from the Foothills and the Basin. I wonder what the racists offered the mercenaries as payment. It was surely unlikely that they had struck up an alliance, a friendship built on trust and mutual shared beliefs, like that of the bond which existed between the Edge and the Throat. She heard the clash of warriors all along her border, she recognised the departure of her brother with her daughters and niece in the distance - everything she felt aware of as if watching it from a distance, disconnected, and yet undeniably thrust into the middle of it all. Mirage had prompted this reaction from them, but they had brought it upon themselves - the Basin had been responsible for many disappearances of Throat members, they tortured their prisoners, they murdered at least two Edge members and were suspected to be responsible for the disappearances of others. They had started this war, truly, and it was time to show them that their ways would not be tolerated.

How often had Lace told her to strike against them? And she had reassured him time and again that they would not bend to the Basin's will, to this Plague's idea of a true world. So Mirage had set forth her plan, working closely with Kri and the Throat, and succeeded in taking the Basin's futures out from underneath them. Was it cowardly to target the foals? Mirage was not proud of the action, but neither would she ever cause them harm like those of the Plague would unto her kin. She merely wanted to get their attention, to test them, to see just how foolish they truly were.

The mare could not call them stupid, however misguided their views were. They had attacked now, and they had brought reinforcements, and taken captive the leader of the Edge's ally. Still, it would not be enough, it could not be enough. She was determined to see her plan through to the end, to watch them fall before the might of the Edge and the Throat. That the Foothills joined them now was a shame - Mirage had respected Ophelia somewhat, but that the Grey would accept a contract of this nature was a despicable misdemeanour she could not lightly forgive.

Ears tilted atop her chiselled façade as her focus returned to her own senses, instead of considering the state of affairs between the herds. Such details could wait until after the battle. Golden eyes pierced her surroundings, and the large, domineering form of a heavy breed came into sight. He moved swiftly, and so Mirage copied him, launching from a standstill into a light-footed canter immediately. Her tail lifted as the arabic half of her bloodline became apparent, the draft heritage evident in the light feathering that winter had thickened behind each of her fetlocks. She observed the build of her opponent, listening to the way his footsteps fell subtly on the ground, seeing the height he boasted over her own conservative stretches. He reminded her of her brothers, and she wondered if she had ever met him before. There was something familiar about him - but it wasn't important, for he was facing her now, here, as an enemy. He had to be stopped.

Above her, Akaith watched, providing her with an aerial view of the battle. She was vaguely aware of those who fought nearby, but kept her focus determinedly upon her bonded's opponent. Mirage curved her path to the stallion's right, spying the twisted horn that protruded from his brow with a keen wariness. Was there any point in asking why he fought? Who he fought for? Who he was? Unless he bowed before her and surrendered, she had no choice but to fight him anyway. The idea didn't sit comfortably with her, but still, she pushed on.

Angling her crown towards him, she moved with practised ease over the loam of her home, more than happy to utilise the darkness and mists to shroud her exact movements from view, as she approached the area the stallion last occupied. When she was within a stride's distance, she angled herself further, so that she was almost perpendicular to him, hoping to swing her hindquarters away from his horn. With her hindquarters bunching and her forelegs folding up so that her knees were held before her chest, she then surged forward and slightly upwards, to compensate for the height he held over her. Teeth peeked out from behind charred lips, as the mare aimed to push against Donovan with both her knees against the right side of his barrel, and simultaneously draw some blood along his wither.

[ 797 words.
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It did not take long for her to see the practised manner in which he moved and held himself, the toned muscles that lined his body - they lined her brothers in the same way. For a moment, she wondered at the life this warrior had. What had brought him to her borders? Loaylty to the Grey, and their cause? Or was it just a sick yearning for blood? Just as she feared, his horn swung around, and threatened to expose her insides to the outside world. Teeth collected a mouthful of cropped mane, and swiftly her tongue worked to rid her mouth of the hairs. Forelegs touched upon the earth without touching against the steed, her hope of bruising him, winding him, hurting him, stopping him dashed as he danced around her, flailing that horn of his at her side. Upon her right shoulder it did hit, even as she pulled sideways, taking steps to her left. It was a scratch, a vertical line following the groove of the scapula to her neck, only a few inches long. It did sting, and her muscles tensed up around it, making it radiate up and down her entire forequarter. As Donovan's side then came rolling towards her, she was already a step to the side, and so as she took another, his shove becoming more of a brush against her bloodied shoulder.

It brought him closer to her, and while she did not possess the teeth of a dragon - yet - she instinctively pulled her lips back to take a bite of the flesh he proffered to her. It was his right side again, though she did not stand upon her hindlegs to gain the advantage of height this time, such was the rush of the situation. The flesh nearest to her maw was his right flank, and so she reached for it, hoping to grasp the folds of skin that curve between his stifle and barrel, and rip them open. The mare was not one to yearn for blood, she was not a monster - not when she possessed her equine form, anyway. Akaith hissed from her aerial perspective, feeling the pain her bonded felt even as Mirage strained against the sting of her shoulder and the need to stay close to this steed. Close enough to strike him, yet far away enough to miss his counter strikes. Muscles rippled along her back, but it was not just for the movement of her body that they rippled. Her raven pelt shimmered in the moonlight, hinting at the magic that was held within, the alternate form that was itching to surface. She restrained it, but it would surface soon.

As her teeth reached out for flesh, the little shadow mare was intimately aware of the nearness her rump could be to his horn, and so she swung her hindquarters away, to the left a few steps. With her bodice angle adjusted, the mare then launched herself forward, forelegs raised so that the hardened hooves of her forelegs might come crashing down upon the fetlock joint of Donovan's right hind leg. The mare threw her weight into the strike, hoping to crush the joint, to hinder this steed from entering her home. The cut upon her shoulder burned, the pain immense despite it being a relatively insignificant injury. It might have caused her right hoof to go off target slightly, it might have weakened the entire attack to be completely insignificant. It would be a lie to say the mare wasn't intimidated by this foe, for though she was adept at surviving this world, defeating foes of all sizes and species, he seemed unflappable. The mare would do her best to disable him - she would procrastinate her dragon form for as long as possible, for once it was summoned, she feared it wold end the life of this warrior, who was only following orders, as her kin were doing in defending her home. She did not want death, but she would not shy away from it if it meant victory for her home.


[ 683 words.
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