The thunder beats in catatonic time to the pounding of his heart as he flings himself headlong among the forest, hooves slamming down on damp soil. They race recklessly, stretching over the earth as if they are invincible, uncaring on the consequences of a single wrong step. Down the rain comes, indelicate bullets exploding on their faces, shattering on their lips, catching on their long eyelashes.

They are alive, and ready to ignite.
Ricochet laughs outloud, the knot in his chest unraveling as he races his monochrome dog, forgetting the irritating worries of day-to-day life. They are thunder and lightning, united by the storm, and they are untouchable and unconquerable.

For hours they run, tireless, lathered, Guns heaving for breath at the Incendiary’s hooves. The stallion does not fare so well himself, foam dripping down his torturously scarred skin, steaming in the autumn cold. How long had it been since they had chased one another like little boys? Too long. Even as he slows, from gallop to canter to lazy jog, the cold air aching in his lungs, the worry he had left far behind him begins to reappear. It is a feeling in his chest, a tension that pulls and tugs at him, constricting his lungs and squeezing his heart with black hands. Ricochet’s jaw clenches, the muscles standing rigid in his cheeks, gritting his teeth together hard enough it hurts, and still he bites down, clamping down on the rising surge of frustration. Leaves swept from branches by the storm toss up beneath his hooves, fluttering in the darkness, and he slams down his forehooves.

Guns creeps away from the stallion, slinking into the shadows beneath the trees rippling in the storm’s breeze, even as the stallion rears, the muscles in his haunches locked, swallowing down the scream in his throat. Again he falls, hooves pummeling the soaked ground. Up his haunches come, lashing out at the trees around him. He welcomes the reverberations that echo through the tendons of his hindlegs, the familiar ache of making his mark.

Audits flick, hearing the whisper of hooves on the ground just hardly over the drumming of rain on wet earth.
Teeth bare, ears pin, veins bulge, eyes gleam with white.
He whips around, uncoiling like a whip, bursting forward, seeing but not understanding.

Quickly he approaches, flying over the earth, and something clicks in recognition in the back of his mind. Legs lock, shoulders tense, head snaps back, haunches come beneath him as he skids in his halt, hooves thumping on the leaves. Exhale, the breath he held in escapes his lungs in a ragged gasp. The bark of his dog. Gleam of chestnut. Shine of stormcloud gray, with flinty green, young eyes. The rattle of his cold lungs in his soaked chest. Raindrops pattering down on his milky skin, turning his head away, trying to avoid showing her the burnt side of his face.
Ricochet stands taller, shaking away the shame that burns in his chest. There are still a solid six or seven strides between them… but he had went to attack her.

Who was her? The Incendiary’s teal eyes flick up. Through the haze of rain, there is chocolate chestnut, turned dark by the rain, a cascade of soaked mane, strength in the lines of her shoulders and slender-boned legs, and steely eyes. Strong eyes. Ricochet offers her an apologetic smile, forcing himself to release the tension in his legs and shoulders and haunches and spine. His eyes are sincere.

“Sorry,” he sighs, tangled tail flicking across drenched flanks. “I…” He clears his throat, lifting his head, planting his hooves stolidly, finding his cocky confidence. “I mistook you for someone else. There are dangerous… things… around these parts, but no doubt you can take care of yourself. I am Ricochet the Incendiary. The dog cowering in the shadows back there is Guns, my pet. I don’t know if someone’s met you yet-” he offers her a lopsided smile- “but anyways, you’re in Helovia. If you’re looking to stick around- or need to know anything- I might be able to help you out.”