THE ARCHIATER.
The thud that sounds from Mari’s hooves meeting his shoulder is not nearly satisfying enough. There is too little space between them for a fully-formed attack, and even the Commander’s practiced strength cannot quite undermine the laws of physics. She lets out a strangled sound of frustration, something between a groan and a snarl, and leans all her weight into the blow as it scrapes down Asterion’s shoulder-plane and ribs; at least he has not dodged the blow completely. Some part of her is irritated that he is doing so well, but there is no time to dwell on it. Only time to beat him.
In an instant, Mari extricates herself from the close-quarters tangle. Her head goes low to the ground, her body starts to turn away. She pushes off of Asterion’s weight to build momentum and whirls away, narrow hooves stumbling on the packed dirt flaring out a wing to keep her balance; this is wrestling, she thinks, with no small measure of disgust, not fighting.
And oh, she is lucky to have timed it so well. She realizes it just as Asterion’s teeth flash above her, bright like a moon. Ducking has put only enough space between them that the boy-king’s bite pulls at a chunk of her shorn mane and not her face or neck; yanking her back by the hair and nothing else. Mari wrenches her head down with all the strength she can muster and manages to rip away from Asterion’s jaw without losing anything more than a few already-short hairs. But the force she’s used to break out of his grasp sends her stumbling when she is finally released from the prison of his teeth, the momentum carries her too far.
The ground sways underneath her feet. She stumbles, her strides catch traction jerkily, and for a moment she thinks she might hit the ground. But after a few more awkward steps she regains her footing (by her Hand!) and goes loping away to put more space between her and Asterion.
A muted relief washes over her as she tumbles away from him, confidence increasing with each foot that separates them. The fall air is crisp and bright in her lungs as she deepens her breaths, chest heaving now, and it sends a sweet, cool thrill through her too-hot veins. She shakes out the tips of her wings: they’ve started to dry, but not without a faint encrusting of salt, and her usual lightness is slow to find her again. It frustrates her so deeply she feels a buzz in her bones. Without the thing that makes her a Halcyon -
Oh. But that is not all that makes her a Halcyon.
The space between them is widened to a cavern now. Almost the whole of the Steppe is left to cross if Mari wants to reach him from where she is cantering, but she does not need to reach him. Only the stiletto-sharp weapon at her side.
She lengthens her stride until her feet are flying over the hard-packed dirt, muscles coiling and unpacking rapidly; she unfurls her wings, but not to fly. Behind the curtain of dark-and-white feathers, she is able to unstrap the spear while it is almost totally out of Asterion’s sight. She tosses it once in her telekinetic grasp, in a tiny concentric spiral. The weight is a familiar comfort.
Blood pounds in her ears. There is only one chance to do this right, would be only one chance to kill, if she wanted to - but she doesn’t, does she? - no, of course not.
One chance to meet her target, then.
Mari is half-way through her circle around the edge of the steppe. As she reaches the three-quarter mark, she ducks her head, flattens her wings and whips the spear out from behind her. The thing is so familiar it’s like an extra limb to her, oversized and perfectly dangerous, and it takes her but a moment to aim it for Asterion’s flank as she comes to face him just before the forty-five degree mark.
Just a second later, Marisol pulls the spear back and pitches it forward with all the force she can muster, launching it toward him in a savage, perfect arc.
@asterion
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
