Blitzkrieg: Vurtne ; (repost)

Even in the light of noon, it was dim under the shield of clouds and through the veil of sheeting rain; Fehazathant, black and slick with the wet, melts into the spring rain like a dark shadow, even as he blinked the chilly water out of his eyes and squinted through it to keep his piercing eyes focussed on Vurtne’s blurred-red outline. He is heartily sick of the rain – he can feel the rot beginning in the fur that rubbed between the bunched muscles of his back legs – and, using his irritation as the fire that coiled in those muscles and rushed in his veins (for he is breathing deeply, if quietly), he approaches Vurtne’s rain-vibrated form. He is under no allusions of complete stealth, for his feet squelch in the mud and spatter it wetly across his legs, but perhaps his steps would be masked enough by the rain to mask the sounds, and his slight scent. Indeed, as if hearing his thoughts, the clouds open themselves further, and a great spring storm strikes with flurry and fury: the rain drives at his back, and he takes it as a invitation from the elements themselves, to strike.

He circles, and comes towards Vurtne face-on, walking as if to meld into the sheets of rain – Fehazathant can barely see him, even blazingly chestnut, and he knows that he would be even less visible. He pauses briefly, considering: Vurtne was greatly shorter than he, but they had much the same build – fast and light. It is decided, then, and he moves forward, slowly again in respect to the slippery footing, approaching slowly until he is but mere paces from Vurtne, still shielded by the rain (he hopes), until finally, he rushes the last few steps, and before Vurtne, staggers his charge into a sudden halt with outthrust forelegs.

Quickly, using the ground itself as a springboard, he shifts his weight beneath him, rocking sharply backwards to shift his weight and drive his hind hooves firmly into the grabbing mud. He then rears like a striking snake, his forelegs rising into the air above Vurtne. He does not concentrate on accuracy with his attack – and indeed, he is more ambitious than usual, and would not have launched such a strike had his opponent not had the disadvantage in height (and advantage, he had to admit, in centre of gravity – Vurtne would be more stable in the unreliable footing, but with his hind hooves sunk into the sodden soil, it mattered not). The apex comes quickly, and then he flexes the muscles of his chest, and brings the rough edges of the bottom of his hooves down with tremendous force upon whatever they may hit: forehead, jowl, neck, or further down, upon Vurtne’s chest.

Had Vurtne had twisted abruptly to the side, even then Fehazathant’s reach was great enough to land even, at worst, a glancing blow; if Vurtne had risen in a rear to meet him, his hooves would have cruelly threatened the vulnerable joints of Vurtne’s knees. Nevertheless, Fehazathant lands heavily (and, so, with stability) in the mud, but not for long. Once again, he uses the ground to his advantage, and thrusts his forelegs into the air while stepping forward and slightly to his right (though it took a brief bust of effort to extricate his right hind leg fro the mud which clung to it), to the side of Vurtne, his rear left leg giving his movement the stability it needed; his lunge is low, deliberately as he arches his back, and he curls his forelegs back towards himself as if pulling at the air. If he has positioned himself correctly, his hooves would land with debilitating force upon Vurtne’s undefended elbow, or failing that, the back of his radius, bruising or fracturing the bone.

Thus vindicated by broken bone or broken skin, Fehazathant drops his head almost to the ground and vaults agilely away from his opponent, unscathed yet – but not for long, he assumes, vanishing into the rain.