"Someone coming."

His dragon's mental voice jerks him from his reverie of preparation, and immediately he is alert; ears pivot, searching for any sign of approaching hoofbeats, any sign of a surprise attack. Then he sees who his opponent will be, and his ears slam backwards, losing themselves in his mane. His silver eyes flash with unadulterated fury, a bellow of loathing escaping his clenched jaws. Cynder shrieks, her serpentine neck lifting high as she bugles her own battlecry into the caverns, her flame-tipped tail lashing with such vigour that her bestial bonded can feel the hair on his back burning to ash.

The abomination looses his own war-cry, and Tyradon sends a stallion's scream of authority into the heavens. One massive hoof collides with the stone ground below with a deafening crack, his tail smacking his flanks. He wants to kill - he needs to. To calm himself - as only fools rush in - he quickly drinks in the other's appearance; marginally smaller than himself, although not enough for it to be noteworthy. That in itself is remarkable, as the warlord has grown accustomed to unicorns being dainty, fragile little things, not titans to match his own gargantuan size. Then, of course, there is the horn - that hideous spike of a stunted mind. His swift assessment complete, the crownless king lunges forwards at the same time his opponent does - he sees the other's skull dip, sees that ugly shard of a mongrel lower like a javelin. Tyradon throws his weight to his left, but his massive size ensures agility isn't his strong suit; he feels the horn rasp through his flesh, creating a long, deep laceration on his heavily muscled right shoulder. Blood oozes, pain spasms, and hatred reigns.

Begrudingly, he thinks that a horn - foul as it is - is a useful tool to have.

But he cuts that train of thought off like a weed; he has no respect for the horned mutts, or their repugnant pretuberances. They think they are so superior because of that shard atop their skulls - as much as Tyradon loathes pegasi, he holds a special circle of hatred within his soul for unicorns, and he will see to it that this particular unicorn flees this battle with his tail between his legs like a kicked dog. He has no concept of mercy, of pulling his punches because this is a spar; if he sees an opening, a possibility to rid the world of one of its vermin, then he will seize it like a starving man. Already he is picturing the other stallion's skull, mounted like a trophy in the cave he has made his home; he pictures the flesh peeling away under the searing heat of his war-dragon's fire, leaving naught but the bare bones of the creature beneath.

He pictures death to this unicorn - this man who he doesn't know, who has done nothing to irk him aside from being born. He pictures it, because it is all he knows.

Cynder shrieks her fury as she feels her bonded's pain, throwing herself upwards and circling the battling horses like a sentinel, waiting for her moment to strike. The light of her flaming tail bounces off the crystals that dot the walls, and the leviathan narrows his eyes marginally against the glare. Tyradon continues to barrel forwards until he is hopefully running parallel to the unicorn, right side to right side. He arrests the momentum in his forequarters, using his front hooves as pivots; his hindlegs continue to swing to his left around them, until he hopes to face Déodat's right side in a T-shape. The warmaster throws his weight forwards, using every ounce of power in his muscled hindquarters to give him the force of a freight train as he aims to crash his thick chest into his opponent's right ribcage, leading slightly with the left side to lessen any contact with his now-injured right shoulder. He hopes to unbalance his marginally smaller foe, to crush him, to dominate him. His jaws do not sit idle; simultaneously to his charge, his teeth snap forwards in the hope of peppering Déodat's right side and back with bites, ears lost in the thick black folds of his mane as he launches nip after nip in the direction of his foe.

Cynder bellows her approval, a sound that echoes in the confined space. Like her bestial bonded, she is picturing the kill, the wanton slaughter of this horned creature - her mind has been so warped during its time tied to Tyradon that she knows naught but the hatred that flows through him like molten fire, and knows only that she likes it.

""

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775/800

Summary: Darts to his left, then turns to try and face Deo's right side. Charges forwards, trying to slam his chest into Deo's right ribcage whilst he aims bites at his side and back.

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