Blitzkrieg: In name and mind ;

For once in Fehazathant’s short career, the weather in Blitzkrieg – late autumn, as it was, had struck finally, and the wind sought fit to catch the outcrops of dead leaves and thrust them into the sky like short brown banners – was perfect; cool enough that he, standing in the sun, was not bathed already in sweat, and the sky was bright and blue. He is black, of course, and the glare from the mid-afternoon sun does not bother him, absorbed deep into the fibres of his sooty face that draw the light away from the glow of his bright blue eyes; he knows this would not be the case for pale-skinned Viruk and he smiles – perhaps wickedly – as Viruk charges into the sunlight to commence, presented with the view of Fehazathant’s rump as he comes from behind.

It is a foolish move, of course, to gallop helter-skelter and direct at your opponent; at that speed changing course is not a thing that can be done both quickly and safely (though, Fehazathant notes, for once the ground is solid and strong), and Viruk’s strike, ill-timed and ill-aimed in the sun-glare, is overshot as Fehazathant, himself moving at an easy trot, thrusts a hind leg out from his body and uses it as a pivot, spinning to catch Viruk’s kick glancingly on the hard muscles of his chest.

He exhales with the impact, a light blow that nonetheless would result in extensive bruises, and he does not see fit to further avoid Viruk as he seeks to place his second blow, somewhat strangely approaching him head-on. Fehazathant, briefly hesitating, is not so stupid as to let himself be struck in the face – although it was a difficult target for even the best of fighters – and as Viruk’s awkwardly flailing hooves had no business being anywhere near his soft and vulnerable nose, he lunges into a quick and low rear, and Viruk’s hooves thump once again – this time decidedly harder – into the aching muscles of his chest.

It doesn’t affect his movement, however, though he hesitates in his pain; it is almost enough for Viruk to escape his quick-fire counterattack – almost. Gathering himself in his rear, as Viruk’s hooves complete their arc and slam into the ground, Fehazathant also lashes out, with fore-hooves heavy and blunt. He can’t tell quite where they land, only that they do, somewhere on Viruk’s bared and vulnerable back legs (and truthfully, anywhere between hoof and hock would be equally devastating). His forefeet strike the ground (and, taking his weight, his chest muscles scream and shout; again he hesitates, but again, more agile as he is than this heavier opponent, it is not enough), and just as his opponent launches forward to escape him, he throws his weight to his hind legs and strikes again with his fore-hooves, lower and more powerfully than before, the full force of the weight of his fore-body brought to bear on a much smaller target: Viruk’s pasterns, thrust up in his lunge as if to greet Fehazathant’s own hooves, and if they did not break bones or, at the very least, heavily and instantly lamed his opponent, Fehazathant would be very surprised indeed.

Finally, he lets his opponent go, his damage wreaked under blinding autumn sunlight and in the soothing chill of the cool breeze – it is finished, for Fehazathant at least, and as always, he is at peace.