Blitzkrieg: IT'S NOT A FAIRY TALE, IT'S MGMT! [JUDGES]

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

Artaxxas dared not trot in such unforgivable terrain; not unless she wished the jarring gait to send her tumbling towards the cold and uncomprehending earth. Her attack, having gone awry, had been designed to butcher, not glance. She shrugged mentally, her sinuous mind calculating a new way to deal damage.

The wind bludgeoned her relentlessly – Artaxxas swung her head from its icy fingers, her eye squeezed shut temporarily by the onslaught. Artaxxas was pleased with the success of her second attack, it had gone for the most part wholly to plan. Artaxxas spun slowly (keep in mind she is uninjured, unhindered, and agile) as she constantly confronted her enemy, her canter sure and supple. Her fire purred around her, quelling the wind as it tore across her face. As Clock approached, Artaxxas (being no fool – knowing an attack was imminent) shied deftly to the side, succumbing to her overwhelming instinct of flight. Clock’s right leg (though Artaxxas briefly wondered how the mare would be able to do something like that with an injured front and nearly-decimated side) tore down her left front leg – thankfully the front of the cannon is much more resilient than the side; which is what Clock hit. It was a powerful blow to be sure, Clock’s hooves tore along her front of the leg as she shied away. Artaxxas’ eyes squeezed shut as she battled the pain that rocketed up her left leg. Left in Clock’s wake was a raw and bloodied mark, already freezing in the bitter wind, though her fire did its best to combat any frostbite.

Artaxxas’ gait was now reduced to a limp, but she ostensibly refused to give up her canter (knowing full-well the trot is actually harder to maintain than the canter). And once more Clock mimicked her, coming head on again. If Artaxxas hadnt learned the first time head-on meant assault, she certainly knew what to do now. She instinctively, again, shied away from the blow, throwing her head sideways as she attempted to leap away from the blow (the wind coupled with her left injured leg greatly and drastically reduced her speed and chance of escape; her left cried out as it was used to avoid the blow, though really she had no choice). Clock’s jagged hooves raked ruthlessly from below the knee to the side of the cannon bone, knocking Artaxxas off of balance. Artaxxas’ left leg howled in protest as she shied, and her right leg was nearly skewed as hoof peeled her flesh away like butter. Pain roared up her left leg as the blood welled, stinging as it bolted up her right leg. Reduced to a hobbling mess, Artaxxas slowed to a jaundiced walk, gingerly moving across the hardened ground.

She reared her ugly head, her imperious gaze cast towards the Soliran. Her head dropped minutely to allow the slightest salutation to the mare before Artaxxas hobbled back towards Andarin, bruised and battered but never conquered.

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..