He is itching with contempt, crawling with revulsion, literally feeling as if he is choking on his anger, the thud of his heart beating rapidly on his ribcage, quickening his breathing rate until his breaths are heavy and ragged despite having not moved an inch. It is swallowing him, constricting his throat, clutching his heart, twisting his ears, a horsefly just out of reach. This anger, so raw, so hungry, so predatory, comes into being unconsciously, and he burns with it, his teal eyes on fire with the rage and passion that consumes, the very same that drove him after the black mare with her charcoal wings.

It is this energy that is so close to devouring him, an all-consuming flame that would often drive him to attack, that Ricochet forces down. He gulps it back, and it is thick and mutinous, tasting foul as a mouthful of greasy feathers, and with the effort of a drowning man breathes, until it fades.

For the first time he can remember, he has controlled his temper.
Still, he sizes her up. Even being a touch taller than him, she is graceful and willow thin, a lick of black fur and red feathers, with great, long-lashed dark eyes and swooping, subtle curves to her body. If it came to a fight, the Incendiary had no doubt he would have the advantage, with his hard, muscle-bound body and brawny hindquarters- and not to mention the emotion, vehemence and ferocity which gave each raw movement belief and power, which she would certainly lack with her vacant eyes and cold mouth.

But it is not this dainty mare of hideous descent that speaks, but a mare cloaked in rolling mist and white shadow, hidden by the black wraith’s rump. Ricochet’s head jerks upwards in surprise, a rough, abrupt movement that makes his neck ache sullenly. Damnable dog, not giving me warning. Too late, Guns gives a low rumble, the sound muted by the cold dank air which settles over the world.

This newcomer is painted with pale blues and frosted hairs, a subdued array of ice and cold, and mocks him with her tones. His gaze is unreadable, even as his eyes darken, and continuing his unusual streak of thoughtfulness, he holds his tongue and stews silently.

Just as his buttermilk jaw parts to share his divine wisdom, yet another comes to join the party, and Ricochet’s harks flick. Unintelligent. It is this voice, cool and careless, that warms his chilled body. This is the one who would be worth the fight. This woman, dark and sleek and crowned with a horn cut from ebony, is the one who would be the real threat, with the sleek oil of her obsidian coat rippling over lithe muscle, the glint of indigo in her eyes. He is scarred and worn, a warrior well-beaten, one who has learned value of defeat as well as victory, all while retaining his supremacy, keeping his authority, holding onto his vanity. Her, speckled with alabaster, smooth-skinned like a babe, with her poise, her slippery wily tongue, she is dangerous in a different kind of way, a way with words instead of hooves, sentences instead of muscles.

Circuta. It is a word bristling with electricity, and if only she were not with an alicorn- but he shrugs his creamy golden shoulder. Why wish for what is not possible?

Sinister threats, gilded words- he has heard them all, and fought them all. Too many to count have whispered promises of deaths into his ears, and yet here he is with his livid beating heart and scarred face, still breathing, still detestable, ugly, and somehow handsome as always. Surrounded by the dead and those with frozen souls, he is burning with hot red fire.

They are all beasts, sickening and despicable.

“There are many who would wish I were dead, but here I am with my soul intact and my dick too.” So get in line, fuckers. The boy inside him, so very alive, wants to throw out more retorts, to tell them naughty things. The man in him wants to rid the world of their taint- but his rationality warns him to remove himself from the situation.

Ricochet turns, and Guns gives another soft growl, and together they vanish into the marshlands, headed away from the fucking mutants who reside within. Next time, he will remember he should only come here with Dragomir in tow, for when they feel up for hunting.

Hunting ghosts and Circutas.