by AWillowsDream

Created on: November 20, 2008

She wields her mighty battleaxe with a quick and sudden fury. Aztec, her horse, pounds its four hooves into the marshy land, slick with a sickly purplish blood. Mighty trolls, over eight feet tall, filled with muscle and teeth pursue her maddening pace through thick underbrush. Armenia dances a gruesome dance, never slowing, never tiring. Sweat slicks mighty biceps as her bones creak from the tremendous force and control that snaps and bites quicker than a venomous snake.

Massive, the black speckled horse finally falters when an arrow spears his hindquarters. Still, Armenia does not hesitate to jerk the reigns and spin him around to face the terrible monsters. The castle of safety looms only a few hundred yards behind them. But, this barbarian will not leave her faithful horse alone to the likes of these wolves. Gritting white teeth she whips out a hooked hunting knife, battleaxe never ceasing its graceful arks and swipes. Aztec prances, bleeding. A bloodcurdling whooping how escapes parched lips as Armenia makes to lunge forward, knowing it may well be her last action on this Earth plane. Just then a terrible screeching splits the air. Grunting trolls lose site of their prey in lieu of what now soars, spewing flame overhead.

Armenia sheaths her knife and begins again picking a path toward the castle of her beloved brethren, the Shee. A shining, silvery blue dragon continues to wreck havoc on the scene behind her; clawing and biting, leaving the charred stench of trolls in her wake. Nearing the castle walls, Aztec slows, muscles quivering. All that is left is to visualize herself and her horse where they need to be. Barely a few feet from freedom, the black war-horse buckles beneath her. Elegant she falls, splashing in a pool of mud. Armenia reaches out. then darkness.

*

A lovely lavender scent fills her nostrils. Aching in mind and body, Armenia wonders how long she has been out. Light hurts her eyes, but she opens them anyway, sensing she is somehow safe. A soft hand gently grasps her arm and helps her to sit up on the soft, cottony pillows. A voice murmurs in her head to dim the light around them. Vision clearing she drinks deeply from the chalice pressed to her lips. The fluid is sweet and tickles as it slides down.

"My horse?" She croaks.

"It will survive," is the soft reply.

"Lame?" Armenia's heart jumps at the thought, though her voice betrays nothing.

"No. A horse cannot provide if lame now can it?"

"To a barbarian such as myself a horse is a companion,

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