Coward!

Cynder's voice rings in his head, a dragon's shriek fleeing her jaws as she fails to do anything but scorch fur - he keeps his manhood, able to forward his repugnant bloodline. The beast, too, is left frustrated as the vermin avoids his barrage of attacks, and he allows a hiss of disgust to flee his clenched teeth as they snap shut on naught but air; he nips his tongue between them, and feels the crushing pain shoot through his mouth. He stumbles in the absence of the unicorn's body, and as he regains his balance he feels a tightening in the hard muscle of a foreleg, the swift movement jarring the tense area. Hatred boils, tail lashing against his flanks and ears pinning as he seizes the opportunity to drag a rasping breath into his burning lungs - the slippery little fucker is giving as good as he gets. Tyradon vastly prefers the ones that simply bow, beg for his mercy and submit to their maker as he spills the blood from their delicate throats - he loathes the ones who insist on fighting back, despite the futility of it.

It is like a cockroach standing up to a lion - no matter how much of a fight it puts up, it will be crushed.

Sweat coats the stallion's muscular neck and beads between his heaving thighs as he follows the creature's movements, watching him run towards him with that thing angled towards his right side - with a feral snarl of concentration the hellion lunges forwards, feeling Déodat pass behind him an inch away from skewering his backside. Tyradon loses no time in throwing his weight forwards onto his forelegs, wincing at the spasm of pain from his earlier shoulder wounds; his hindhooves unfurl like pistons from beneath his quarters and kick sharply behind him, aiming to slam his opponent squarely in the right ribcage. He hopes Déodat will not be able to arrest his forwards momentum in time to dodge out of the way, and wants to feel his heavy draft hooves shatter the bones of the lesser man - the massive feathered plates erupt from beneath him with the force of a freight train, with maximum damage intended. He wants to hear the screams as fragments of bone pierce heaving lungs, he wants to watch the blood bubble out of the abomination's mouth and see the light die in his eyes.

"End him," he mentally demands of Cynder and, like any good soldier, she obeys.

She does not go for the same area; this time the emerald war-dragon soars towards Déodat's face, flying low and aiming to come up from below, so as to avoid that hideous horn of his. Her limbs gape and she aims to grip firmly around the unicorn's face, her right forepaw seeking to sink its feral claws into Déodat's left eye, and her left one into his right. The honed, razor-sharp talons of her hooked fingers hope to rip those beautiful blue orbs free from their sockets, to leave the scum blind and howling. Her jaws do not sit idle, either, and another white-hot torrent of flame escapes them, seeking to set the man's forelock alight as well as scorch the entirety of his handsome face - perhaps she can even melt his horn, see if she can render him normal. Her flame-tail flicks upwards, hoping to hook beneath the vermin's chin and burn that, too. Tyradon can feel her pulsing rage, throbbing like a heartbeat in his mind; she is not as controlled as he, perhaps due to her newly-regressed age and mental state. She is reckless and dangerous, and revels in the simple pleasure of battle, in the spilling of blood and ending of lives - her bonded is more battle-worn, more hardened to the excitement of war. He sees it as his duty, now, more than an enjoyable passtime; Nieque placed him on this earth and gave him his dragon and his magic so he could purge, exterminate the vermin and ensure the purity of the equine race. It is a job; a calling.

That isn't to say he doesn't enjoy it, though. And when Déodat's head rolls by his feet, he will give himself a moment of macabre pleasure.

His hooves return to the ground and he turns, not willing to let the unicorn have a free shot at his rear end; his breath comes in quick draughts and froth coats the corner of his muzzle, exhaustion plaguing every hardened muscle. The warlord's blood is pumping; it has been eight long months since a unicorn last fought back against the inevitable, and it has tested him well. And, if the jade death in the form of his war-dragon can permanently scar the creature's foul facade, then he will be a happy man indeed.

""

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799/800

Summary: Moves forwards and tries to kick Deo in the right ribcage with his hindlegs. Cynder tries to gouge his eyes out with her claws and set his face on fire.

Don't worry about it! Great fight <33

3/3