silver tyrants and goddesses

The moon-esque goddess let herself remain calm and relaxed, despite the impending sense of danger emanating from the tyrant.  Her heart kicked against the cages of it's prison, trapped with no way to bulge larger and louder.  Then came that deathly croon.  That tense silence nearly snapped then, before her own lyrics even sounded.  With the flick of her ears in indigence, she would continue, only for the tyrant to flash serrated ivories, yellowed compared to the harlot's own.  Battered lips folded over the dangerous weapons, an interjection sounding in deathly noise.  "No, dove."  The pulpit of the woman would bore glacial drills into her own amethysts, still yet full with the same emotions as the tyrant -- daring and defiance.  So a fight would be such.

The air got tense, the fabric of time stretched thinner than ever.  Sections ticked away like hours, it seemed.  The harlot pushed herself up from reclined haunches, quickly stretching them so to not tear a muscle in the process.  Instantly, they would spread wide, keeping herself from losing balance so easily, despite the low odds of the tyrant attempting to charge from a mere four feet away, head-on as well.  Each of the harlot's digits would widen, claws gripping the murky soil, rolling her toes to test how well it would hold.  A bit wet and slick, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem.  Fights usually were quick and stationary.  She still wanted the best grip she possibly could gain, despite the muck clinging to her pawpads.  Very rarely a wolf would break away from another.  And from her knowledge, Artemis wasn't one to simply let go of a death grip.  Knees bent, almost in a crouch to allow her a shock absorber.  Shoulders rolled forward, tightening as much skin as possible on her flanks as well as back.  The fur of her hackles rose skyward, pulling the skin of her backside easily toward them, as well as her neck, creating a bit of a straight wrinkle effect on her skin.  Her previously swaying banner came to a complete stop, rising to align with her spine as both a rudder and mean of balance.  The harlot's skull lowered, aligning with her banner and spinal column, chin tucking close to her chest fur, balancing herself and protecting vital areas, such as her jugular or chest, precisely the fleshy part before her legs.  From experience, many wolves would try to ram shoulders into that position.  Upon her facial features, her eyes narrowed, brows creasing and crinkling the skin of her forehead, and shielding her optics from dust damage or potential bites.  Lips peeled back in an ugly snarl, porcelain whites just waiting to be stained with blood, skin pushing back in wrinkles, while her muzzle crinkled in defense.  The skin would wrinkle up into loose folds, and be harder to find secure grip onto.  Veldt ears pinned against the base of her crown, skin folds of her forehead stretching thin onto her skull, a hard place to gain a tight grip onto now, and protecting the vulnerable area from any ideas that the tyrant may have for it -- she was after spoiled beauty, after all.  Silently, she contemplated what her move would be toward the bitch, what her own target would be during this fight.  The flash of silvery white made her decision clear.  The eye of the beholder.  How would the tyrant like her own eye being torn out?  So far, the harlot had met two other wolves whose eyes had been removed by this same bitch.  Oh what she had gotten into.

There was a short pause, time stretching ultra-thin over the forest.  It seemed all of the croaking frogs had silenced themselves, waiting to see what gore would occur in mere minutes.  Neither could regret their decisions today.  The tyrant had already laid waste to the distance that could have allowed the harlot escape, just four feet separating the two women.  One masculine and powerful, the other feminine and streamlined.  They both were even in height, but not build.  This would be an interesting fight for others to observe, but even if Artemis had felled pack rulers before, the harlot would not give in easily.  They were head-on, locked in a standoff.

Then the tyrant made her move.

Her appendages stretched, swallowing the distance between the two in just a couple of neat strides.  Her stride slid a little to her own right side, the tyrant's intent obvious on her right side first.  There already were bruises there from her previous match against another, but they had healed.  There wouldn't be any scars in that area if she could help it.  Haunches spread wide, power localized in them, and her chin ducking low to defend as much of her vitals she could.  They were almost shoulder-to-shoulder, until the tyrant threw her right shoulder toward the flesh of her neck.  The jagged point of the blade sliced into the base of her throat, pressing harshly into the soft flesh of it, wind rushing from her muzzle.  The harlot huffed for a burst of air if she could get it, then swung her skull to her left, a bit slowly due to the scars of her neck, but still a smooth motion nonetheless.  She stepped backwards involuntarily from the pressure of the shoulder, and hopefully she could feel relief from the nagging pain of bone meeting bone.  Over the roaring of blood in her ears, she heard the faint snapping of teeth, then pain ripped through her right-sided face, but it was not the intended target of the tyrant.  The bitch's top mandible was hooked into the area just to the left of her right eye, where wrinkles and folds of skin caught the serrated weapons painfully.  The lower section of the tyrant's jaws was latched into the area just beneath her right cheek.  Both sets of fangs sunk in about half an inch deep, but sweet gods, it was painful.  The harlot bit her own tongue to keep herself from screeching like a banshee, her mind falling into the darkness of rage and hatred.  The tyrant's left foreleg brushed against her own right foreleg, yet the harlot felt it's hairs graze hers.  Before the tyrant could try to wrap it around, the harlot would reposition her weight onto the remaining three legs, accounting for her loss of balance on her right foreleg, it shooting up quickly to keep it away from the tyrant.  It would fall on the floor, and once it could land soundly, the harlot would reallocate her power to her forelegs, with most of her weight in her hind legs.

In an attempt to remove the bitch's teeth from her right face, the harlot would throw her head down in quick movement, violently in fact.  Once her velocity could slow enough to move in a straight line, her forelegs would push up and back, while hind legs folded, then straightened like planks, in attempts to break away from the elysius.  Even if she couldn't find herself breaking away, and only staying in the same position she was, the harlot would position her weight into her hind legs, power localizing at that spot as well, her right shoulder jutting forward as she lunged toward the elysius.  If she could aim it correctly as she intended, the shoulder would hit the fleshy joint of the tyrant's right shoulder and chest.  Either way, there wasn't much she could do, one way or another the tyrant could find a way around her attacks.  The throbbing pain the first bite pounded in her skull, and hopefully the harlot could make a comback.

EMPYREA vs. ARTEMIS

for

REMOVAL/BLINDING OF LEFT EYE
ONE TWO