He had never chased like he had today.
And it made him alive.

There was the pounding of his hooves alongside Dragomir’s, the low rumble of his friend’s voice, and for a moment he sees his vision lying before him. This would be life, every day, when he and the son of Adalwulf completed their life’s mission, their duty to the name of Nieque and the equine race. It would be euphoric freedom and weeding out the last of the ugly flowers, grazing on a hot summer day, foals playing at the flanks of overfed mares. It was not his intention to create a world of warfare and blood, even though he lusted for battle like many stallions did a beautiful mare; he wanted a world of peace for his race, a place where there was safety and all were part of the norm. You couldn’t say he was selfish- there was no selfishness in his dream, only a heartfelt belief worn into him day after day, night after night, until he lived for the hope to see the equines restored to their rightful place at the apex of Helovia.

Branches clawed at his eyes and slap at his face, dousing him in frigid water, sending chills crawling down his dark spine. They follow her like wolves would a wounded fawn, caught up in the boil of their blood and companionship. Ricochet finds newfound energy in his step, carrying him along like a tidal wave, teal eyes vivid with shock and elation; Dragomir was worth far more than he had ever imagined. The tall stallion was more than a friend- in the Incendiary’s eyes, he had transformed today, from ordinary to something special, a trophy find, an equivalent of an elusive fourteen-point stag. Who would have imagined they would have ended their meeting hunting black mares and sharing in the joy of the chase?

Guns is a dark shadow at their feet, close to the ground, tongue lolling, silent. The wet has washed away most of the immediate scents, and his leathery wet nose is filled with the musk of Dragomir and Ricochet, the pungent stench of their sweat and the salt of crimson blood.

Detaching from his side, the paint is sprinting ahead of him, pulling ahead. Ducking his head, neck stretched out, the buttermilk boy puts on a burst of speed to catch up, but he is too late; Dragomir has made his audacious move, leaping forward with all the strength in his hindquarters, and for an awe-inspiring moment the stallion is flying. Ricochet’s eyes widen in surprise. Even he would never think of such a bold move, and so suspect to misaiming. As it was, the stallion only catches her but slightly, but still hard enough to send her flying.

How does she like flying now, when she hits only dirt and damp ferns?
Ricochet bugles his triumph, heart soaring with indescribable triumph, nares flaring in drink in the red-stained mare’s fear.

He tenses, preparing-
And a meddler drops before them, a dark mare with gold lining, earth and aureate eyes, cold flesh. With a move worthy of a cowhorse, Ricochet sits on his haunches, sliding to a halt before her, head drawing away from hers, snorting and heaving with the pursuit. As soon as he stops his joints whimper in protest, even as he forces himself to stand, ignoring the sudden pain. Shadow forgotten, he seizes up the newcomer, teal eyes burning with a fire that casts deep shadows across his face. She is a monster, tall and disfigured by massive unfurled wings.

The Incendiary, who only managed to stop perhaps a half-stride away from her, is rigid, each muscle carved deep into his buttermilk skin.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ricochet snarls, nostrils flaring to drink in her sky-tossed scent. “This is none of your business.” He steps towards her, ears locked firmly to skull, tangled tail whipping across his hocks. Emboldened by the sense of victory, whatever logic he may have normally retained in his thick head seems to have been knocked out of him, and his teal eyes lock with the stranger's, lips curling into a sneer. “Well, skyrat? Get out of the fucking way.”