Posted by slv Anatole on November 12, 2008, 12:45 pm, in reply to "and it's all in good fun - i"
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He begins a slow roll-back towards her; he does not exhaust himself, simply because he knows Mab isn’t shy. She will let the battle continue, unlike other challengers who run away after they attack. Anatole prefers closer quarters precisely so he doesn’t have to catch up – especially in the slick, thick footing, it is hard for the large, powerful stallion to make up any kind of speed. He realizes that his hindleg is almost fully functional, and while his foreleg is injured, the hardest thing about these attacks will be the snow. He will have to keep his attacks low to avoid slipping, but also high enough to miss kicking straight into a bank of snow.
After a few, laborious seconds, Anatole is upon her again, his injuries serving as painful reminders of the damage Mab had dealt. But the fire-stallion is fearless now; adrenaline courses through his veins just like blood, just like Fire and he burns with all the intensity of revenge. He is not full of the same malice, the same in-your-face power as Mab; his tactics are to remain level-headed. Even now, his lips are twisted into a sort of half-smirk, half-smile and as he approaches, he quivers with excitement.
Mab is moving, and so Anatole approaches her rear. Using his reserves of power (that’s what he’s built for, after all – sheer power) to catch up to her, he kicks up snow and wastes no more time rising in a half rear. Just above the level of snow, he propels himself through the quagmire to execute his first attack. Delicately rolling his injured foreleg beneath his chest, he extends his uninjured foreleg and takes a powerful, downwards swipe aimed directly for her hock. Simultaneously, he uses his combo and strains his head forward, his powerful jaws unhinging in a series of bites on her hindquarters which are meant to slow her down and bring her closer into his reach. Blood from his own injury trickles into his mouth and onto her skin and the metallic taste is enough to drive him into a frenzy; he aims to sink his teeth into the tender spaces on her hindquarters.
There is no mercy in Anatole’s attack; he has sprung upon her, cat-like, and the addition of his weight being pitched forward as well as his front kick should equal a devastating attack to her hind leg.
The swipe itself, if it connected to the hock, would be enough to cripple the hindleg, tear off precious flesh around the area and severely handicap the muscles and locomotion which converged at that point. Since the momentum of the attack was forward and down, he had a very good chance of sending the hock crunching in a direction that it was decidedly not supposed to go. He could almost hear the snap of her leg now as it bent to his will, crushed beneath his fire-swathed hoof. If he is lucky, he will crack bones, tear ligaments, pull muscles and rip flesh, turning her leg into little more than bloody bits, meat-grinder style. If it missed the hock, his attack was also flexible enough to still catch the cannon or ankle before he slipped back down to the ground.
His uninjured hoof landed first and then he unraveled the injured one, limping soundly as he used his more stable hindlegs to push him through the snow, to the right and against Mab. He took a few strides, the point of his shoulder drawing ahead of hers by the smallest of margins. With a fresh breath of Fire rippling across his shoulders, he keeps his injured right side decidedly out of her reach.
He turns to the right now, burying his forelegs in the snow and transferring his weight forward. He sinks deeper, feels his forearm crumple beneath his weight and though he screams in agony his hindquarters rise in a powerful ending to his attack: a double-barrel kick, executed beautifully by a horse built for exactly these kinds of maneuvers.
With his chest half-buried in snow, he pitches his searing hooves into her barrel, to the bottom of the curved ribcage. His attack is not for the true ribs this time, but farther back for the false ones; they are softer and are more likely to break under his kind of force. There are plenty of precious organs housed there, and he hopes to crack several of her precious ribs. If his attack was at all successful, it could cause massive internal damage as bones shattered, muscles tore and organs seized up.
When his hooves slip easily back into the snow, he immediately draws up his foreleg and winces. Though the thick bank of snow had stabilized him, the injury had flared up and he grunted again. There were trails of blood – from his face, from his hock, maybe some from Mab – all over the disarray of upturned snow and he shook his head. The cold chafed the places that were exposed to the elements and he wanted nothing more than to escape into the warmth of Solira, where he was currently a prisoner.
He nodded to his hometown hero once, the smile still playing on his lips as he limped out of Blitzkrieg. Tossing yet another glance over his shoulder, he thrust his hindquarters into the air, his steel-gray eyes glittering with amusement as he let his tail wave high above his ankles, the black strands stretching behind his snow-capped, yellow hindquarters like a banner.
Let her say again that he left with his tail between his legs; obviously, it would never be true.
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