She was grinning at him like a monster, her teeth yellowed and stained with the blood from her recent feeding, and something stirred in his stomach. Fuck it, she was a monster. The monster, surrounded by corpses, whose sweet dreams were probably nightmares to those who were normal. How did she become so insane? How was it that a horse could be so twisted and corrupted to become something primitive and feral inside an equine body?

It smells like blood here, like salt and decay and the ripe stench of intestines, of spilled bowels and piss. A little more fighting wouldn’t hurt, if it came to it.

Little master. Why did she call him that? Constantly? He was no little master- he was the master, and she was going to be his mangy cur, his bitch who would come at his call. The buttermilk boy’s ears twist to his skull and flatten against his tangled black mane, and his lips curl back.

Ricochet snorts, snot misting in the cool air. “If you want to have a go, come at me Histe, but you’ll still lose.” His teal eyes glisten rich with arrogance and vanity. They had fought once before, or twice… it seemed every time they met, they fought, either physically or verbally, bantering back and forth. And damn, their fights were impressive; but he was stronger, more hot-headed, more passionate about fighting than her, at least in his egoistic opinion. He was full of fire, and she was rain, but he prevailed because of his heat.

The short grass is slick with blood beneath his hooves, he notes dually, poor footing. Still, he had fought in all sorts of strange places before, against opponents with dragons to accompany them. He could handle a brindled mare who couldn’t think straight.

There is a sharp crack as Histe crushes the horn underneath her hooves and the stallion’s nostrils flare, eyes hardening into steely teal daggers. At the Incendiary’s feet Guns begins to growl, rumbling low in his chest, stomach pressed to the ground, a glistening rope of drool hanging from his lips. The dog’s brown eyes lock onto the mare’s; perhaps he picked up on the tension running electric through the Incendiary’s tense body. For a single primitive moment, Ricochet wants to growl too, but instead he states with cold clarity- “that was a gift, bitch.”

Another second trickles past, seeming slower than ever, and her words drip with venom that scalds his mind and send him boiling in frustration and simmering with heat. He edges closer to her, until they are face-to-face, as stallions who fight sometimes will; his head twists and his mouth reaches out to nip at her ears.

“I promise you, I will give you the fucking fight for your life.”
And he rears, twisting his head to try and bite at her skull, hooves reaching in hopes of scrabbling at her neck and chest.

Time and time again, they threw themselves at each other, attacking blindly, mouths seeking to taste blood, companions watching on. Again and again they continued their dark little circle, and Ricochet couldn’t help but wonder if she was a lost cause. Even if he did win- and he would, he was cocky in his belief of that- what would be the point? He could maybe fuck her and fight her and conquer with her, watch their children grow up to be monsters, but she was only one angry bitch whose mind was scattered across Helovia.

And probably an unwilling dog too.