Rage.

His self-control has been impressive, by his own reckless standards. He has guarded the mare and her mongrel brats for Nieque knows how long now, and they are all still alive. Oh, he has been tempted - every time he looks at those foul antlers, every time he is reminded of the unicorn warlock who took his magic and of the boiling racism that sears in his veins from long before that, he has wanted to see the mutt mare's brains splattered like a broken promise up his feathered legs - wanted to see her face as Cynder eats her children from the outside in, leaves them screaming. But he resisted, because they are Confutatis' prisoners, not his; he has shown admirable constraint. And how does the vermin repay his generosity? By challenging him for her freedom.

It looks like he will get his chance to rain his fury down on her, a blizzard of hatred. She will burn for him.

The snow sucks at his massive legs as the warmaster moves towards his challenger, eyes blazing like chips of molten ice. "Kill her," he says aloud, his words addressed to his jade war-dragon who screams her delight - Tyradon can communicate with Cynder through his mind alone, but he wants Arah to hear his words; primal, psychological warfare. "And make it hurt," he adds to the emerald reptile, who leaves her perch on his scarred back to circle around above the two fighters. Already the behemoth is darting his gaze across her body, noting her size and build; she is over two hands smaller than him, slim and, to his mind, frail. She is an insect beneath his hoof; a creature fit only to crush. He thinks the surroundings will favour her more, though, as his gargantuan frame sinks easily into the thick snow and he feels it tugging at his muscles, testing every ounce of strength he possesses. The mare and her featherlight feet will likely not suffer as much from the resistance as Tyradon himself - but he will have an advantage on the icy ground, as his heavy, platelike hooves increase his surface area and thus his grip on the white carpet below. Sweat beads his neck and between the cavern of his thighs, freezing as it makes contact with the frigid air and giving him a silvery, ghostly sheen, accentuating every heaving muscle and tightened sinew.

He will break her.

He charges her, aiming to approach her left side in T-shape. Ears lace into his mane, slatelike gaze fixed on the smaller body of his opponent as he arrests his momentum and turns on his forehand, swinging his massive frame around the pivot of his front hooves in the hope of bringing his hind end to face her. He throws his weight forwards, hindlegs sprawling out from beneath his thick rump, kicking out once, twice, with his heavily feathered hooves aiming to crash into Arah's left ribcage. He puts every ounce of force he possesses into the attack, wanting to feel her ribs shatter beneath the impact - he wonders how pretty she would be with blood bubbling from her throat, pushed forth from pierced lungs. His muscular neck ducks between his forelegs as he kicks, ensuring he puts every iota of his back's rippling strength into his attempt to decimate the little rat girl, break her.

Simultaneous to Tyradon's attack, Cynder releases a serpent's scream and dives like an avenging angel from the heavens above. She aims for Arah's face - her legs splay, wings slowing her as she seeks to latch onto the mare's features from the front. Her right forepaw seeks to sink its viciously curved talons into her left eye, whilst her left paw aims for the right eye - she wants to paint the horned girl in her own blood into her own twisted vision of perfection, use her as the canvas for her macabre art. Her jaws do not sit idle, either, and open wide to spew a white-hot torrent of flame towards Arah's forehead, aiming for the area between her horns - she hopes to set the harlot's forelock and forehead afire, to watch as strips of flesh peel like cooked meat from her skull.

The warmaster and his war-dragon fight in perfect harmony; it's a dance, their mental bond thrumming with energy as each picks up on the bubbling hatred of the other. Cynder's mind has spent eight years being twisted by her bonded's strong opinions, her consciousness crushed into accepting Tyradon's racist way of life. The mare she is attacking is not a sentient creature, a living being with children and feelings; she is meat, she is prey.

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Good luck! <3

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Summary: Charges towards Arah's left side, turns and tries to kick out twice with his hindlegs at her ribcage. Cynder tries to land on her face, gouge out both her eyes and set fire to her.