Posted by slv Anatole on November 12, 2008, 11:57 am, in reply to "ANATOLE: fighting fire with fire I see."
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Anatole had long since realized he was little more than something to be bartered; now, smelling of sea-salt, he came to do his own dirty work. Blitzkrieg was the only place that allowed him this – it was the only place where he felt in control of his own destiny. The scar prickling across his skin, he inhaled a sharp breath of frigid air and felt the fire burn across his chest and shoulders in anticipation of his fight with Mab. She had beat him – soundly – their first tango, when he’d still been green around the ears, untested and young. He’d made plenty of mistakes; he’d let his rage and his thirst for vengeance get in the way.
Let it be known, though, that Anatole never makes the same mistake twice.
It is, indeed, not Betrayal that Anatole sees when he spots Mab, burning with the same kind of fire as his. He sees the crimson warrior of his homeland in all her silver splendor and realizes that this fight is not a normal one. Normally, he fights to grow stronger so that eventually, he can defeat and slaughter Betrayal; today, he fights simply to beat her. He fights to rectify one of the holes in his record – to prove that he is not as foolish as he once was.
Fire ripples across him like rage and he grins. He would let it be known that he never – not even when she beat him – left Blitzkrieg with his tail between his legs.
Let it begin.
* * *
Her approach was wholly anti-climatic. Anatole stayed firm in the snow, a smirk on his face as he watched her slow, walking approach. Fire burned on his legs, melting the snow around him to a manageable level so that when she reached him, he was only standing in a few inches of snow. As she drew nearer, Anatole felt his body tense in response; muscles coiled and bunched, his Fire grew more intense, and his mind set to work. He forgot everything – even the glare of the snow – as he felt her grow nearer and nearer. He did not trust her – especially not when she moved in front of him, apparently expecting him to remain still while she intended to just stare at him for a few seconds.
But Anatole was no fool; he was not simply going to allow her to amble up to him, pause and look at him for a while and then launch into a frenzied attack. His body and mind were already prepared whenever she drew close enough, and because of his distrust in her, he used the small area of snow that was melted around him to make his escape. When she had nearly drawn to a halt, he moved off to the left, took a half-stride and completed a low, safe rear into the bank of snow that his Fire had not been able to reach. Anatole had never been particularly good at predicting attacks, but who in their right mind is just going to stand still while a horse approaches them?
Certainly not Anatole.
He felt her rise as he moved, and tossed his head upwards in an act of defiance. Despite this, her teeth connected painfully with his cheek, ripping a chunk of flesh away from his face so that he was bleeding rather profusely. A trickle of the crimson liquid began there and dribbled down to the earth below, pooling the snow and staining it the deepest of reds. But that was certainly not her attack – he knew Mab’s style, and she’d used this on him before. He was still launched in his low rear as her simultaneous bite and kick were delivered, so his forelegs were curled up and his body was angled to the left and away from her even as she struck. Instead of catching the area above his knee, the forekick (a rather weak choice anyways, with three other legs planted on the ground) was deflected to the right side of his right leg to the side of the metacarpal bone. The impact here was still painful; Mab packed power and Fire into her kick (although the Fire part really didn’t bother him) and the impact made him unstable as he dove into the snow.
As he landed, he was grateful for the cushioning that softened the impact of his fall but he pitched forward for a moment, further straining the impacted leg. Although there was definitely nothing broken or fractured, his leg became stiff and he knew there would be some deep bruising; it would hinder adequate movement during the battle. The injury made it even more difficult to move in the snow now, but he could balance his weight on it with only a throb of pain.
Since he has deflected to the left, is moving forward, and she has taken 2-3 strides, by the time Mab pivots and kicks for her second attack, he is nearly out of reach. Her low, one-footed kick spends more time sailing through the air, reaching for him in the wide space between them, than it does connecting with him or producing any damage. He does not even really know how she’s moving, as his hind is facing her and his only instinct is to move. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, the open wound on his face stinging from the cold, and catches a glimpse of what is going on.
His hind legs are low, pushing into the snow mid-stride to propel him forward, when Mab’s kick catches his hock. However, there was too much time and too much space between the horses, allowing him to get away with only a dull, throbbing soreness as his hindlegs extended. In the cold, his skin cracks open, allowing more blood to dribble down his leg; the pull in each stride is painful, but not crippling and as Anatole slows in the snowy muck, he is grateful that she took the extra strides and that he was already moving away.
Anatole collects himself, leaving a thick trail of blood in his wake, and swivels slowly in the snow. It’s incredible, to him, how far she’s already gotten. The glare of the snow would have masked her completely, but he can see the thin outline of flame licking at the air around her and grins. Despite his injuries, he grins.
Because this? This is the fun part.
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