Like the lion he embodies he hunts her, pounding the earth with massive hooves, ever careful of the glass strewn across the ground that desires to further injure the leg his prey had struck. There is a level of brief confusion as her form flickers and disappears into the shadows, but the whelp has focused solely on his vision. His senses are his greatest attribute in that moment, relying on everything else, focusing as intently as he could on his hearing and the echo of vibrations against his frogs. He knows at that point what magic the creature can employ, knows how to dispel it as he'd forcibly done previously. The golden king fights the hold the vermin has on him, struggles to see her form flicker like a bad signal in front of his eyes. Greater stride carries him to her, and he's grateful for the length of his frame and the structure of his body as throbbing limb is relieved from the duties of extended time chasing after the faster hyena. There is a sick desire to feel her flesh against his own, to feel her armor crack against his blows and expose the softness of her flesh, like the underbelly of a porcupine. He wants to feel her blow for blow, to take a violent awareness of her body as he forces it into submission. There's no incentive for him to draw his magic, however much it may help him. No, he wants to destroy her with only the strength of his body and the determination in his heart. He wants her to bleed before those who avidly watch, wants to stand above her body in triumph, show that he's not to be underestimated.

Such thoughts surge through his head like live-wires, synapses flaring. They're momentary, ephemeral, creating in his blood a stirring that powers his lunging for her hide. There's only the desire to kill, to protect, an instinct driven into his skull like an iron spike. Protect your mage. Hindquarters bunch, eyes already set upon the area with his target having been her flank. Kicking off to the right he grunts at the resounding flare of stiff agony in his leg even as on the next stride he is swerving back towards her, undaunted by her pathetic attempt. Is she realizing now that she is hunted, that her time is coming to an end? Soon she'll be cornered, treed, and his hounds will tear into her flesh to take their revenge in quarters of meat and bone. As forelegs leave earth he watches, sickly pleased, as she recoils too late upon realizing his presence. Her whelp cannot save her from her own physical disability, and as weight is thrown to the left and impact begins, Kaj feels amused.

Yes, there's the slam of their bodies, the pleasant ache of impact spreading through one muscled golden shoulder. She goes careening even as teeth snag her mane, ripping tendrils free that he spits out in disgust. He will not have any piece of her tainting him, will not so much as taste the disease that crawls on every surface of her bodice. As he last notes in moments before an attack must form and reaction take place, her smaller frame is tilted to their right, no longer parallel to his own. Momentum cannot be stopped even as she skids from his blow, and a decision is made long before the prickle of tell-tale magical presence touches his nape. On the next stilted stride following impact he rises, thrusting forth on thick hindquarters as he hopes to momentarily tower above her. Fighting Maskan, such a move was sure defeat, but Confutatis was far smaller, and he doesn't fear she can upset him enough as he attempts to pass her to endanger him to a point of no return. He'll make Maskan proud. He'll show Mirage that the Edge wouldn't fall simply because its leader was not overpowered with hoards of magic and abilities.

Momentum is carried forth rather than attempting to fight in close quarters, his frame too bulky and her venomous mouth too dangerous for such tactics. As he carries through, aiming to shove her aside with the force of his forward movement should her positioning hinder him, hind legs thrust forward. Forelegs catch on earth, right knee screaming, and hindquarters bunch to return her kick, thrashing out and hoping his advantageous height will land the blow along her breast or high upon her neck. And he gallops, as fast as he can manage, even as his knee bitches at him, narrowly evaded magic making hair stand on end as he entices her to chase him. Let her pretend she's the hunter while he lures her into another trap meant to destroy her. Bleed for me, lieveling.

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Attack: 2/4
Word Count: 800
Translations: Lieveling ;; poppet, darling
Notes: Ugh, I feel like that was crap