The son of angels snarls as wings fly past his head, the cherub having thrown her misshapen body away from his charge. His tail whips nothing but empty air; he snaps his teeth at the winged rat's hip in blinded fury, pulling the crown of thorns up and away, driven by the tang of blood which paints the air. Damaged angel, she lashes back, her hind legs acting as daggers of depravity. Too low to strike the shoulder or neck, a hoof skids off the beast's right breast, bruising tissue and brachial muscle. Pain blossoms in an auburn haze, too much to ignore and too little to recognize; demonchild shakes his head, ears pinned back and nostrils flared, and lets the gentle throb join the pounding of his blood, the rush of adrenaline that fuels his hate, the voices of hell which urge him on. An inhuman shriek rends the void between them, from what throat the demon knows not; the cherub turns tail and flees to the sky, relying on limbs bound to fail- horses were not meant to bear wings, and the demon knows this. He follows her with two-toned eyes, a darkened shape in a darkened sky who thinks herself safe in her haven of the heavens.

The demon's lips twist into a smile. Chubby cherub, you will never be safe from me.

She arcs in the sky and disappears; for a moment the beast brushes with panic. Like strangers on the street who have come too close for comfort, equine and emotion pause for a moment and stare one another in the eyes; and then terror drops his head and hurries on, frightened by what he has seen in the devil's gaze, and Belial spins to find the mare, his hooves tearing sand from stone, scraping upon the scoured battleground.

A moment later she enters his periphery; she is a copper bullet fired from a silver gun, a small figure growing rapidly in her forceful descent. She's sailing down upon his left. Too bulky to move quickly away, the Seraph's son feels no desire to flee from a foe so obviously inferior. Nay, another idea springs quickly to mind, one which suits the sizable stallion, swirling the bowels of his bloodlust. Strike the coward; bring her down; the voice of his mother whispers sweetly in his ear, and he grins his response on a white-washed face, shifting weight to tightly muscled hind legs, happy to relieve the bruised right fore. He will make her proud, her and Deimos and Cinnoru's name. He will take the pain and crush its source, will raise cloven hooves and bring them down upon his enemy's skull, will hear the crack of shattered bone and laugh. He will rend the abomination limb from limb, and when he has had his fill of her pain, he shall leave her on the steps of her fallen kingdom, and watch her weep.

Too stocky to budge when bound the earth, the rat is an easy target as she falls from the sky. As she flies downward he surges left, bunching muscles to into a pivoted leap, aiming his body towards the descending foe. A touch on the ground and then up again, the horns on his head spearing into the air, his large form angled against the fall of hers, mahogany back arched in hope to impact against her. He is hell coming to swallow her whole, the dreaded serpent on blackened legs, a champion of immortals who will knock the stout little cherub from her perch on cloud nine. His legs brace for impact, muscles ready to take the weight of her against him, mouth open in a gentle pant and a longing for blood.

It is an act not without consequence. Twinkle toes has hit her mark, and he winces as her hooves collide with his spine. He can feel the pain; it begins at the point where his rump curves upwards, radiating out from the small of his back and coursing down his dock, his flanks, a bright spot of bruise forming and growing and hurting more than he could ever have believed. He stumbles, right hind caving, and falls to all fours, a faint sting of torn skin and a steady throb of hurt behind his eyes. A snarl, a snort; with renewed force he throws his weight forward, kicking, blinded by his rage, great cloven hooves shoved into whatever part of the bitch he can reach. Winged rat, she is destined now to fall; her blood cannot save her, cannot save her home. His eyes are lit with an eerie fire, his horns gleam in the faint light of night; he will destroy all she holds dear piece by piece, just as soon as he has finished crushing her.

[ 800 words, post 2 of 4, defense 0 of 1. Belial hasn't noticed Lyhty ]