The beast didn't reply. There was no room in his mind for clever exchanges anymore, no space left for anything but rage. It was quite senseless really, because he had heard the insult so many times before. On a good day he might even have turned around and just walked away, preferring to ignore anyone that was brazen enough to call him out on his greatest weakness and flaw. This... wasn't a good day. Between the rush of wind that kept tugging at the tangled mess of hair, rain that pelted the ebony skin and the rudeness of a complete stranger for no good reason at all his patience had worn thin.

This time his rage won out. Unfortunate though it was that he couldn't carve out a new shit-hole for the silver-tongued cur it was still incredibly gratifying to feel how the sharp tip of his longest horn penetrated skin and sunk deep into the quivering flesh. The sound it made was horrible, a sickening smack that echoed hollow and dull in his ears; blood sprayed across the bone of his mask, staining ivory with desaturated crimson splatter that quickly began to run when mixed with the rain. It dripped down across his muzzle and spread its pungent taste to the tongue, sent shiver after shiver down the spine of mingled disgust and elation. The sensation was incredible, pride and pleasure and even more rage surged through every fiber of the massive boy, so intense it made his loins ache and pound with arousal. Rain-soaked skin rippled as the muscles of the neck swelled, bracing to receive the clash that might otherwise have twisted the head in dangerous angles. The impact was jarring, rattling his senses enough to make him unsure where exactly the assault had landed - not that he cared. The entirety of the other stallion was his target, he was coming for blood and pain and as much gore as he could manage - and if he by chance got to put an end to Thranduil's life in the process it would only be a bonus. Morir would take the haunting of his spirit over the living breathing thing any day.

Feeling how the horn cut through layers of skin and meat as the other moved on Morir tried to slow down, to halt and throw himself after his prey with the single-mindedness of a freight-train. A feral growl of furious impatience roiled from his throat when the giant cloves dug into the ground to stop the onslaught and bring himself around, only to feel them slip and slide on the wet leaves. Blind to the surroundings and any obstacles in the way he banged into a tree as he turned towards the left, bouncing back with a grunt of discomfort at his own aching ribs; then the feet found traction and he was off again, hounding after the quarry in a rapid gallop that devoured distance with every giant leap. His reckless blundering around had served to bring him out of range though; Morir heard a whoosh of air and clack of teeth as a retort missed the skin of his left flank by inches, close enough that his mind reeled with shock and fury and a ghost of the pain he might have had to feel.

So the bastard dared to reciprocate? That was fine by him because the blinded brute had no plans on going easy, mercy had been erased from his vocabulary and it was only right and just that the disgusting little loudmouth struggled before he fell.

Displeasure and hate continued to rumble in the deep chest as Morir pounced again, following after the sound of labored breathing, struggling feet and the metallic scent of blood that permeated the air. Once again he lowered the horns to attack from behind, seeing nothing wrong with using a tactic that appeared to work; he was not a trained warrior, there were no elegant tactics or fancy strategies to guide him in his moves. There was only bloodlust and a stubborn, bull-headed desire to really maul that flabby ass as much as he could manage. It was with sadistic glee the death-masked stag tried to aim at the bloodied part of the others body once more, he was aching to hear Thranduil scream out in pain and terror at the sight, the touch, the approach of him, Morir, the Undertaker come to bury him for every lie, slight and offense ever made.

And boy, did the gold have dues to pay there.

__________________

PC: 2/3 + closing defense.
WC: 756
OOC: Morir skid to a halt and turn to the left to pursue Thranduil, avoiding the bite. Running after he tries to attack from behind with his horns again, hoping to hit the injured hip again.

"I embrace the thorny rose to my chest and
fall into the crimson sea
I continue dancing upon the
piled bodies until I die"