Intellectual Property of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
Warnings of Violence and Language. And I wish to point out that neither Vixen nor Gorm mean any of the insults they are lobbing about, and that I, personally, take no issue with the followers of any religion.
The scent of Horse, and of Leather, and of Steel fills my nostrils. Hoofbeats sound beneath me, and behind and slightly aside. There is a slight swish from that same direction, and I lean forward, hugging myself to the neck of my small horse, barely larger than a pony, as a sabre goes whistling overhead. The great, black, almost destrier, gallops ahead, its plate armoured rider bringing the blade back into a guard. I dig my knees into my mounts side, roaring my warcry. "HAAKA PAALE" I roar, my cutlass sliding out of its sheath. "HAAKA PAALE POHJAN POIKA!" Hack On, Hack Them Down, Northern Boy. The rider on the black wheels, coming back at me, and I wait till we draw close. At the last moment, I kneel my steed to the right, cutting across the front of the black. I toss my cutlass from my left to my right, and lash out with a vicious cut at the riders leg. It is parried, but barely, and met by a growled "Damned Haccapaelitorum". We trade blows, wheeling our mounts, and in frustration I snarl at the Cuirassier. "Fucking Papists!" I snarl, for the rider bears the colours of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, some of the more vicious Catholic cavalry. The cuirassier pulls away, making use of the black warhorses longer legs. As the distance opens I here the parting comment. "You Wish!" she laughs at me, and I laugh back. "You Wait, Milady!" I yell back at here, wheeling my mount. Why I am doing this when I am meant to be resting and recuperating may take some explaining. See, after the last op, everyone involved was given the summer off, Medical Leave, officially. Vixen and I came to stay with Michael and Sara, old friends of mine. They own a ranch. Michael is a Historian, and a Reenactor. Sara is also a reenactor, and a Vet by trade. They breed horses back, trying to recover historic breeds. Michael has managed to produce something similar to a Destrier. Sara favours Hobby Horses, Finnhorses, and their antecedents. War ponies, effectively. Well, right after we showed up, a few weeks before the end of the school year, Michaels eldest boy mentioned his project for show and tell in his history class had gotten damaged. They were studying Medieval Europe. Late medieval, specifically, or early post medieval. Whichever period the Seventeenth century fell into. The Thirty Years War, to be precise. And it just happens that I trained as the Hakkapell I am pretending to be. And that Vixen served as one of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, under Johann Tserclaes, Count Tilly. So we obtained replicas of the gear we used to wear, most of it sent up from Valkyrien HQ by next-day courier service. And young Johnnie got to show his class Cavalrymen from two of the factions involved. Of course, after that, we got to reliving the old days for fun. But I digress. Milady is wheeling her horse, and I knee mine forward. Her arm crooks, her wrist twisting and backhanding her sabre, resting it along the length of her forearm. Her elbow flashes, blossoming fire, and there sounds a loud CRACK!. Fire blossoms in my shoulder. I glance down at it, and see the hole in my leather jerkin, blood seeping from the edges. As she wheels away, I reach up with my free hand and feel into the hole. I draw forth a large lump of bload-coated lead. "BITCH SHOT ME!" I yell. Accurate. Not exactly polite. She wheels back towards me. "Not Bitch!" She yells back. "Vixen!". I laugh. "Fair enough" I retort, spurring into a charge (without spurs, I wish to point out), my blade swinging complicated figures in the air. We clash, blades slamming into each other. I strike and parry, making fancy flourishes. Keeping her attention on the cutlass in my hand. My free hand creeps down to my waist, wrapping round the head of the axe hanging there. It draws the axe free enough to get the hand wrapped round the haft, and then I make my move. Hooking her blade betwixt mine and it's guard, I shift my balance, and the pressure on my legs. My mount rears, and I lean forward to keep my balance. On its two hind legs, it pivots, bringing me around. My sword hand twists over my head, keeping her blade locked, don't ask me how. The axe comes out, extends in my grip, and the flat of the head, punches into Vixen's midriff, just below her cuirass. As she gasps, and doubles over, I slide my feet out of my stirrups, and throw myself at her. My weight, coming when she is already off-balance from the axe blow, knocks her off her horse, and I land atop her on the ground. I flip up the visor of her bascinet and stare into her eyes. Just for a second like. Right before I steal a kiss, hop back to my feet, and lope over to my horse. "Well, come on then" I call back. "What are you waiting for?" As she picks herself up. She begins to run in my direction, but I've already caught up to my little pony. I grab it's mane, and hop back into the saddle, whistling it into a run. As she turns to head over to where her horse, reasonably trained beast that it is, is standing, I come up behind her, and smack her rump with the flat of my sword. A little pressure from my knee, and my little Finnhorse sidesteps out of the way of her grab for me. "Now, Now, not my fault you were lying down on the job." I tell her, laughing and wheeling off. She mounts off, and with a determined grin, sets off after me.
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