Blitzkrieg: we can't dance together;;

"Courage is not the absence of fear,
But rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear."

In the beginning, the universe was a mass of undecipherable bits and pieces, compacted densely and full of uncontainable energy. In the beginning there was no rhyme or reason for the way that matter behaved; laws were not considered, nor rules followed. There was little predictability to the actions that it took—it only behaved by instinct, and that instinct was to move.

This was Kivioq, young and restless as he took his first steps within the realm of Blitzkrieg. He did not need to be told its purpose, for the musky smell of old blood was enough to make his heart pound in his muscled chest. He was inexperienced in matters of war, and yet this gave him a dangerous trait; he was positively fearless, both a blessing and a curse.

The sight of her made him bristle, for he remembered her lean body and her strange face from his homeland. This would not be a fight that pitted the dreams of Andarin with that of the sea or the desert, and yet it was no less serious in nature.

As Kivioq transitioned into a plodding trot, then to an earth-shattering canter, there was no way for him to ignore the tenseness of the earth beneath his hooves. There was no give, no relief for his graceless legs. He instantly forced himself to hold control over his impatient muscles, snorting in frustration as he reined in his adrenaline rush.

He was used to the plains of his birth, a place of seemingly endless summer.

She approached with more speed than he could ever hope for; it took all his strength not to rush to meet her, and instead he clenched his teeth and slowed even further. She made no effort to move in at an angle, had no tact to her approach. This is not to say that Kivioq would have done any differently, but merely an observation that he drew within his mind.

Anyone could have seen the rear coming, and he could not hold back his raging adrenaline any longer; he rose to meet her, trailing her motion by only a moment. His legs, of course, began to tuck as his hind legs took his weight. He only reared as high as she, his teeth snapping at her face and grinding together in warning (purely for show, as he did not yet know of “countering” such an attack). One might fault him for such an action—after all, what goes up must come down, down, down to the abnormally harsh footing. Yet we will remember that Legend has done the same, and yet she must take an even higher path! They had seven inches height difference, and though Kivioq had not calculated this mentally it worked to his advantage. In comparison to his opponent’s half-rear, he barely left the ground.

If only he could have known of the advantage she wielded, her ability to shape the earth beneath her feet.

She still struck him, her hooves connecting viciously with his lower forearm slightly above his knee. He squealed, the high pitched evidence that he was still young ringing loud and clear over the plains. For a moment he lost all regard for the footing, his body crashing large and reckless for the frozen turf. But the pain ebbed for a moment, the blow finished; he sank back onto his massive haunches, managing to distribute much of the force onto his already planted hind legs. Still, he could not help but cringe as his forehand was met by the merciless earth.

He faltered for a moment, too engaged in his injury to recognize that she was rising again. Her motion was quick, and this compromised her accuracy. As Kivioq was no longer in the same stance as before, she caught the side of his left pastern and the coronet band, sending a shock of pain radiating through his lower leg. Thankfully he had distributed the injury to two different joints, spreading the injury and leaving smaller aches in multiple places rather than a serious blow all at once.

This did not mean it did not stab with pain as he stepped to the right, following her motion. The wind hit him full on, only adding to his burden as he attempted to match her steps. His eyes fought to stay open, watering until the world around him was nothing but a muddled blur. He continued to pivot, knowing that blind motion was better than no motion at all. His actions were by no means hasty, for with every additional movement the ache in his leg reminded him that he would pay dearly for hurried steps.

A sickening crack rang through the air as his hooves collided with his barrel, hitting not muscle but bone. A rib had surely been cracked, leaving his side stabbing with pain. He would be lacking in flexibility, for with even the slightest bend his side screamed in pain. His nostrils flared in frustration, the injuries making him feel futile despite the coursing rage that heated his blood.

His hind legs were still intact, and on this fact would ride his attacks.

He approached her on the right side from behind, struggling to follow her with his ever-painful injuries. They faced away from the wind, and for now that was enough. Legend would be hesitant to turn to either side, for naturally it would be easier to see if she was parallel to the gusts. Kivioq was satisfied with this arrangement as well, for it meant that she was most likely to move forward.

Predictability was perfection, after all.

When his shoulders were even with her barrel, he sat back on his haunches, collecting further. It was easy for him, for he was built to do this; his forehand grew lighter, his forelegs rising higher than before. This was not as dramatic as he wished it to have been, for his injured foreleg would not allow it. For all intensive purposes, however, it was noticeable, and noticeable was all he needed. He hoped that in putting on this show, Legend would anticipate an attack from his front legs. It was a distraction, so to speak. As they grew more animated, it looked quite plausible that he would strike at her forelegs, and with this he hoped that she would concentrate on the positioning of her forehand.

Without hesitation he struck out with his left hind leg for her right hind cannon bone, a fluid cow-kick that was born with ease from the strides of his canter. It was unfurled as his left hind leg peaked, and he landed without much fuss or bother. It pained his side, to perform such a motion, and with this he slowed (though surely if he had struck properly, she would too). He was not a light creature, and if Legend was lucky she would scrape by with just a bone-deep gash. If he had hit square on, the results would be devastating.

He landed carefully, his stride barely disrupted. Even so, his injuries were beginning to set in to a greater degree—he kept close to her, matching her movements as he felt the hum of her element. It did not distract him, but intrigued him. Had the adrenaline been absent from his body he would have questioned her, asked her what could possibly have caused such a strange feeling.

Thankfully Kivioq was not so distracted as to leave the battle unfinished, and he moved for his final attack.

She was faster than him, but her injury would buy him some time. He limped forward, lunging forward as quickly as he could. He strained against the broken rib, fought with the bleeding wounds that littered his front leg, mustered all the strength he could to surge in front of her. His positioning was now to the front and slightly right—she would be foolish to continue to step forward or to the right in the face of his hindquarters, and thus was left with the option of moving left or backing up. Either would be slow (to the left because of the howling wind, and backing up because it was naturally sluggish), and Kivioq did not hesitate to strike out. His hind leg (the same that had just struck at her cannon bone) coiled and sprung, flying as eagerly as a bullet from a gun. He balanced on three legs, a powerful attack aimed straight for Legend’s right knee. The best she could hope for was to displace the blow, leaving her leg painfully torque and bruised, or to be far enough out of range that the power was lessened. Both proposals were unlikely, and Kivioq’s chest fluttered as he heard the collision of hoof and bone.

It did not occur to him as he limped away that he did not know her name. He knew only of the smell of pine that clung to her skin, and that she carried the heart of a wolf within her chest.

K I V I O Q
--recruit of andarin--