Alone the grulla stallion stands, crest arched, nose tucked slightly in. Amber eyes are downcast, his back rounded, hooves square beneath him. He clears his mind of all thought, instead focusing solely on his senses. His steady breathing is the only motion, echoing loudly in his own ears. Inhale, exhale, inhale … Slowly, his skull rises, gleaming pools upturned, roaming about the makeshift arena in which he placidly awaits Arianah’s arrival. Behind and to the south of him lies the stream spoken of. The skies are dismal, the clouds pregnant with an imminent spring rain. A grimace shadows his features momentarily at the thought. Flames and water do not mix, no matter how badly you yearn for them too; demonstrated so indiscriminately in the form of Aprilia and the young goddess’ penchant for screwing with the lives of those who called Hoof Prince home. An annoyed huff passes through the two-toned brute, ears momentarily burying themselves in his thick mane, a blushing maiden hidden behind her fan. The harsh scree of a hawk pulls them from their feigned innocence and they press eagerly forward, rotating towards the source of the piercing utterance. The sound elicits a nervous chill, a viper curling down his spine, only to settle deep within his belly. He starts forward, lateral appendages shadowing each other in a bouncing two-beat. Lazily he moves about the field, warming his muscles, allowing the clammy feeling of apprehension to fall from his frame like water from a duck’s back. He is the boxer in his corner, randomly jabbing the air, bouncing from foot to foot, mentally and physically preparing himself for the anticipated skirmish. His breathing elevated just enough to supply his now-ready muscles with needed oxygen, he slows his pace, walking slowly to keep his body warm, contemplation now coloring his features.
He knows nothing of Arianah, save that she is the Queen of the Silver Lakes. He has no grudges against the North and only the faintest idea of the raid and subsequent shift of power to the South. She was simply another opponent in this seventh war, standing between he and the title of Champion. He clutches his reason for fighting in the war close to his own heart, ever wary of allowing himself to be known intimately by any other.
The hawk that had interrupted his solitude not long before does so again, crying out and pulling him from the mire of his own thoughts. He glances in the direction of the fierce predator, watching it take flight, wishing for the briefest of moments that he too, could take to the skies with such unmatched ease. Binocularly, he follows its ascending flight path, surprise overtaking him when it banks silently to another being’s side, this one much larger and splashed in warring tones. Arianah. His muscles flex involuntarily, his gait moving once again to a trot, skull tilted slightly, yellowed eyes glued to her painted bulk. He cannot help but to fleetingly admire how effortlessly she soars before bringing his mind to bear on the task at hand. He continues to move at an easy two-beat, employing the subtle weaving motion that any wild horse worth it’s salt does naturally. Senses trained on his opponent, he arcs towards the slope, eager to clash with the in-flight beauty.
As he draws closer to the downward slope of the field, he finds himself preoccupied with tracking her movements; this combined with the fact that air is indeed intangible, is detrimental to his own homeostasis. The air about his head suddenly compresses, as if gravity holds a nasty grudge against him. Bewildered, he grinds to a halt. His ears flatten against his poll in an effort to ease his discomfort. When Arianah packs the air to her desired psi, pain explodes behind his eyes as his tympanic membranes stretch dangerously inward. Convulsively he swallows, frantically trying to aid his Eustachian tubes in their quest to equalize the pressure. (There are only a few reasons as to why the Eustachian tubes would not be able to open on their own – ie smoking, allergies, respiratory infection etc.) Of course, he has no clue as to all these technical terms. He just wants the agony to stop. He whips his head about, black tresses wild with the frantic movements. His breathing becomes frenzied, lungs desperately trying to fill themselves with life-sustaining oxygen. A vague sense of vertigo echoes within his mind and a truly out of place giggle pours madly from his throat. Limbs shift underneath him at an awkward, prancing gait, inadvertently bringing him forward and down the slope. Stars explode behind his closed eyelids as she releases her elemental attack, allowing the air to ease back to atmospheric pressure. The damage, however, is already done. His balance is compromised and that, combined with the declining terrain, sends him sprawling. His legs give out and he falls heavily into the small stream, the rocks grating across his left side. The frigid water is a shock to his system and he bolts from its embrace almost immediately, confusion muddling his mind as he gallops haphazardly up the slope across the level field. Blood from a few superficial cuts, rendered by the unforgiving rocks, streams with the water to the earth. Bruises bloom underneath his pelt, assuring him a sore few days following this bout.
Though he had not fallen into the subzero waters intentionally he gains, somewhat, from the rude awakening. His senses are somewhat restored, his mind desperately trying to gather itself in preparation for Arianah’s next attack. His head continues to throb, his ears cocked at a weird angle in proportion to his poll, flopped down in mockery of a bloodhound’s pinnae, the sounds around him now dull and muffled. His muscles feel wobbly, fatigued from the frenzied motions committed only moments before, the roped sinew confused by the recent lack of oxygen. He blinks rapidly, an agitated motion as he tries to clear his head, and barely in time. Because his hearing has been compromised by Arianah’s invisible attack, he does not pick up the telltale “whooshing” as she extends her rather large wings. His monocular vision is now employed and he catches a glimpse of her two-toned form descending rapidly from the heavens, a Fury of old, her face a mask of grim determination.
He has no time to perform a calculated defense; instinct overtakes his mind and he rears off the ground slightly. (He has no time to perform a full rear, which he may have performed if he had been aware of Arianah sooner, and had not let instinct take the reins). His weight shifts to his haunches, the right hind placed a bit further ahead than the left, which is to be the pivoting hoof. Taboo shoves against the earth with his forelegs, the right limb coming up a bit higher than the left, a stabbing pain in the near-sided appendage a reminder of his tumble into the stream. He twists his skeleton away from the looming vixen, (We have all seen this move. You know, when you’re horse decides to be a barn sour idiot. They catch you daydreaming, rear up, spin around, and bolt for home ^^) but alas, the bulky stallion is not quick enough. Mid-spin, contact is made. Because Arianah uses her chest as her weapon of choice, the force of the blow, combined with the fact that he is indeed half-turned away from her, is significantly lessened. However, the northern Queen does have two hundred pounds on him, and Arianah’s momentum transfers into his own, pain exploding in his shoulder. His forelegs automatically seek the earth and when they catch ahold, he stumbles, his left leg buckling momentarily, dipping his shoulder down awkwardly before he can gather himself.
Rather than panicking, as he has already so embarrassingly demonstrated he is capable of doing such, he brings himself away from the point of attack at a trot. His right shoulder feels gimpy and out of sorts. The pain radiates from the ventral portion of his cervical trapezius, the dorsal portion of his deltoid, as well as the caudal area of his brachiocephalic. The brutal onslaught has taken its toll – it will be difficult for him to lift and use his right shoulder for the remainder of the battle. He finds only slight consolation in the fact that Arianah’s chest is probably also bruised from the impact. Breathing heavily, he once again gazes towards the skies, easily locating his winged combatant, pinning her every movement down with watchful eyes. Sweat streaks his hide, mingling with the waters on his soaked left side. The children of Altus tumble over one another in a maddening race, slowly clearing away the cloud cover, allowing the late evening sun to peek through and warm his tired figure.
He rifles quickly through the battle rules laid by Altus – only one more attack to go. His ears remain cockeyed from her elemental attack, the hearing in both now severely dull, a symptom that will linger for at least the remainder of the duel, if not days past the end of the war. He feels out of sorts, shaken by the beginning events of this round, so he picks up a smooth trot, trying to shake the unsettling feeling. Well, as smooth a gait as his sore body can muster. Expressive features are a grim mask, incisors clenched involuntarily against the pain. Initially the movement seems a bad idea, the muscles screaming indignantly, but after the first few jarring strides, he finds a balance, flattening his back muscles (an equestrian’s nightmare!) and taking some of the pressure off his injured right shoulder. The splashed creature probably looks awkward and strung out but let’s face it; this isn’t a western pleasure class by any means.
Golden eyes continue to cling to Arianah’s winged form and an involuntary snort of exasperation rips from widened nostrils as she banks hard, coming about once again. He continues to shuffle forward in his graceless trot, despite his head jerking up in pain every now and then, unwilling to allow his muscles to cool and harden. He heads south, towards the hated stream, briefly losing sight of Arianah as she wings about, maneuvering in behind him. Knowing he is in trouble, he begins to weave slightly back and forth, allowing his monocular vision to keep track of her. Feeling much like a sitting duck, he stretches his head out, keeping his neck and back level. Outrunning her is out of the question; nevertheless, he breaks into a very uncollected left-lead canter. Adrenaline floods his veins, the natural reaction a prey animal has when being pursued, allowing him to shove the pain the movement causes to the back of his mind momentarily. As he continues due south, the dying sun to the west outlines Arianah, though not as clearly as he would have liked. Unable to rely on his sense of hearing and obviously unable to see what exactly in the hell she is doing up above him, he studies her shadow, now stretched out to his left, as she wings nearer. Noting the tucked position of her appendages, Taboo assumes she is going for the obvious – a blow to the poll, the most vulnerable spot she can reach from her unusual position. Just as she pulls even with him, he lags, his breath catching sharply as he breaks down to a trot. A split second later, he exhales, his crown flashes downward, muzzle tucking into his chest, hocks bowing underneath his hindquarters in a sliding stop. He transfers his momentum backwards, flinging his forequarters up and backwards, much like a rodeo bronc trying to dislodge his rider. His aim is to surprise Arianah, make her fling her own head away, hopefully upsetting her attack and lessening her intended blow.
It is Taboo that is surprised, however. His sudden break in gait, and subsequent “tossing” of his upper body has brought his foe’s hooves crashing down around his neck, a bit further ahead than she had originally intended. They come down around his neck because her hooves are not pressed together, thus there is an empty space between her hind legs. As Taboo rises to meet her strike, neck curved down, her descending limbs scrape down across parts of his brachiocephalic, splenius, and cervical ventral serrated muscles. The strike ends abruptly as she squeals and retracts, leaving a bloody path of scraped flesh in their wake. Though a horse’s hooves are dull, not sharpened, a blow of this heft is perfectly capable of damaging the superficial layer. Severed capillaries dot his torn flesh in blood, the hair and top layer of the tissue peeled back in parallel lines on either side of his neck.
Fury ignites deep within Taboo’s belly, the fires of Paduan screaming in delight as finally the pain releases him from his normally placid manner. Ears, still placed unconventionally, suddenly drive backwards, teeth grinding against one another in frustration. Arianah had her fun; now it was time for a little bit of payback.
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