|
Bodies embracing, clashing, blackened silhouettes beating, fighting, snapping, minds fraying, hearts cracking, blood dripping, dropping.
Confutatis’ teeth snap close on empty air, only frozen air burning in her dead lungs. Adalaide is coming up to greet her, and for a moment the dark, huge silhouette looms in the mare’s one-eyed vision, blotting out the stars spangling the black skies. She braces, preparing for teeth to tear at her neck and hooves to batter at her, for them to embrace as if they are human lovers. To the mare’s relief, it then appears the appaloosa slips, loosing grip on the slick grass. Being shorter than the other mare, inevitably granite hooves scrape down the cruel-faced mare’s forefront of her shoulders, battering away at her exposed chest. One flailing hoof even catches her in the tender white flesh of her whiskered muzzle, sending her squealing loudly in a mixture of pain and defiance, crashing towards the earth, the thud of her landing forehooves muffled by the dry grass.
Callous, cold, unforgiving; dark, bitter, vindictive; she channels the negativities of her heartless spirit into each movement, carrying out her dance with all the eloquence she could muster. It is true she may not pack quite as much damage in her punches as her opponent could with her heavier build, but what she lacked in strength she made up for in the tactics- and general defense. With the acquiring of the armour she pulled from the spectral landscape of dead corpses and withered warlords, she had not just the woolly hairs of her winter coat to protect her, but a secondary layer that had slowly begun to fuse with her very flesh. And, of course, as she vainly thought to herself, her street smarts and experience born of multiple wars always played out well in the competition of savagery and the often primitive fighting.
Blood wells in the numerous scrapes running down her throat and the flesh of her windpipe. Every inhale, every exhale, burns, each swallow stinging- but her mouth has begun to foam, at last coaxed into acidic action, no doubt by the battle stimuli.
Having pushed herself backwards, tipping her weight onto her haunches, the mare finds it easy to scramble back a few paces and evade the mare launching herself, enormous black hooves flying, at her face. Her sooty eyelids shut out of instinct, squeezing tight in preparation for imminent impact, even as her hooves take her away. Immediately from the moment she deems herself safe, Confutatis turns to put her scarred ass in her opponent’s face. At the moment the mare rears, moving in a swinging motion through spectacular balance on her hind legs (even the warlord’s daughter stops momentarily to marvel at this feat), she thrusts down her white head and bucks, even though a hoof cracks against the spine of her armour. Despite the bone plates protecting her vulnerable vertebrae, she winces, a dull ache seeping through mainly her right croup. No doubt a bruise will form from where the bone plates, unpadded on the inside, dug into her tender flesh.
She has no particular aim, although she hopes her hooves will come down on the mare’s lower chest or even smack the thinly-protected bone of Adalaide’s shins.
But she doesn’t care; all she wants is to destruct, destroy, maim. Any landed blow will pump her blood ever-faster through her veins, send her snarling, choking, hungry. She is starved of blood, damned to rot in the infernos of tartarus and hell. Today she will add another year onto her sentence of eternal torture that will come in her afterlife- today she will kill, murder, slaughter, watch blood fall onto brown earth.
As Adalaide turns her own haunches to Confutatis, the black mare lets out the high-pitched squeal of a challenging stallion, kicking out again in wanton hope to hit and bruise the hard flesh of the mare’s well-muscled buttocks.
Ears pin and ivories bare, eyes smoulder.
Kill, destroy, plunder.
Being of equal agility as Adalaide, when the mare turns yet again to greet her with a face to her Confutatis’ ass, the mare also turns a half-circle, so she hopes to be at 90 degrees, with her foaming teeth at the mare’s left cheek. All she sees is a ghost of white, a smear of shadow; all she can do is hope that this is indeed her target (and she did’t severely mess up on her directions.)
Again she bites, teeth aiming for a precious, black-tipped ear (is it her ear?) Perhaps just the general face.
Should her teeth grab hold, they will sink in deep, she hopes, and never let go, shake the ear back and forth, a terrier killing a rat.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
CONFUTATIS
⇒
blood to drink, bones to crunch
