Blitzkrieg: OF MOONS, BIRDS, AND MONSTERS [CLOCK]

|| A R T A X X A S ||
When the world has turned;
Paralyzed and wrong..

Artaxxas’ body erupted in flames. Instantly, the Phoenix-mare was alight, her tendons and ligaments warmed to perfection – limberness and suppleness achieved. Her hooves flared with tongues of fire, the hard and frozen ground bowing under the intensity of each foot-fall. She turned away from the bitter wind, combating its frigid claws with the fire that burned innately in her. She picked up a powerful and steady canter, her weight slung across her hocks and her haunches coiling with potency. She approached head-on, her scorching hooves a blur of motion.

Two strides before (even before that her canter changed dynamics, becoming uphill and compact), she reared her ugly head, her eyes alight with concentration. For a split second, it looked as if she were to ram chest to chest – but the stygian mare is a beast of deception. Her front end elevated in a half rear, her hooves clearing the hard ground to deliver a momentum packed and bone-crushing blow to the joint where the short and long pastern joint met on the left leg (both pastern joints are designed to absorb horizontal concussion, but Artaxxas was dealing over 900 pounds of pure vertical pressure, enough to snap the joint in half). The momentum and velocity poured into the attack approached nearly 500 pounds of pressure, not to mention rather than strike the pastern joint, Artaxxas sought to land upon it with a bone-shattering, tendon-obliterating crunch. Her hooves, alight with the burning intensity of element, sought to not just destroy but incinerate what was beneath her.

If Clock tried to shy or evade, Artaxxas would deftly and easily follow – the footing allowed swift movements and Artaxxas was a beast built for speed and power. Much like her father, she would not easily be put off. Landing with a heavy grunt (her flames briefly extinguished), she felt the force behind the blow send a jolt of small pain along her shoulder, no doubt a repercussion of her powerful first attack.

With her opponent’s left leg presumably crippled, Artaxxas once more adopted the same canter as before, her strides fluid, her hot hooves creating depressions in the soil. She executed a long and slow roll-back, taking her time as she circled to once more approach head on. It was a slow and deliberate move, she used timing to her advantage so her opponent would get the full feeling of her first attack’s brutality by the time she attacked again. She felt the bitter clawing of wind and eschewed it, her Fire rallying around her.

She approached head-on once more, this time instead of masterfully rearing, she swerved artfully to her left (Clock’s right) looking almost as if she were to pass Clock with nothing more than a grunt of disapproval in Clock’s direction. And then, timed with precision that only came with years of experience, she unleashed a titanic, full-force double-barreled kick targeted directly for the rib-cage: which was laced with dozens of muscles aiding in breathing, and most primarily, movement. It was a wrenching move packed with nothing but pure power, her scorching hooves seeking to permanently brand Clock’s right flank. The blow itself was designed to annihilate the muscles used for movement, as well as fracture (or even break) the rib-cage. If Clock tried to bolt forwards or shy, she would no doubt be putting pressure on her injured (presumably injured in any case) left leg. To evade in any manner meant to exert pressure on the leg that Artaxxas had hopefully completely obliterated in her first attack.

If she hit her mark, Clock’s entire right flank would be completely rescinded. Clock would be out of commission for the remainder of the battle. If Clock managed to bolt away in time, Artaxxas’ searing hooves would come into crushing contract with the obliques, no doubt causing irreparable damage. If Clock swerved or balked, Artaxxas’ flame-laced hooves would bludgeon mercilessly into the ribcage, hopefully snapping rib and sinew in the process.

Artaxxas’s hind legs reached earth once more, and her fire once more retreated from her scorched and blackened hooves. The chilly air besieged her, and instantly she settled into a calculative, impressive canter, circling tauntingly around her adversary as she awaited Clock’s move.

Waiting to pick up the pieces
That make it out all right.
But pieces of what? Pieces of what?
Pieces of what doesn't matter anymore..