Morning must be here somewhere, hiding behind the clouds. Caneo peers upward only briefly in search of it. More irritating things now suck at the silver boy’s attention. Mud is the first of these: mud teasing at his every step, glistening on his pasterns and clogging the cleft between his toes. Is there nowhere else to fight? A desert, maybe? He would even take a sandstorm over this. The air he sucks in tastes of mold and water and rotting plants, and the noises of unhappy things lurking somewhere nearby tickle at his ears. Well then, where is the opponent? Caneo hopes, a little despairingly, whoever it is at least looks as stupid as he does.

        He is no longer very pretty, anymore. He is in fact the only bright thing to be found: a long yellow shape, like a child’s attempt at a crescent moon, covers his body chest to rump. It is not the moon, of course. The moon is never so ugly. With every step the costume encumbers his legs; he wonders about kicking with the stupid tail end curving over his haunches like that. It’s not even hard enough to make a suitable ram with either pointed end. The only purpose, in fact, seems to lie specifically in irritating Caneo, who has no use for yellow felt and has never once seen a banana in his life. A cold rain spits from the heavens as he searches out his next opponent, and his long ears twitch in response. It feels like tiny, cold fingers tapping against his skin, at least where skin is exposed. While his costume remains relatively dry, it at least does a little work in preserving his body’s heat. He is not as grateful as he should be.

        He thinks about tricking his enemy into cutting this yellow thing off.

        Some sort of movement catches his attention – a flash of white up ahead. The boy is all wires at once, his thin body drawn tense. A moment later, the air shatters around a piercing scream. Whoever it is struggles with something under the boughs of a nearby tree.

        She comes toward him all at once: some sort of red and white monstrosity, with two horns curving from her brow. Blood runs down one of her legs. Caneo hesitates; something in him wonders if perhaps he ought to turn and run. He has come this far, though, and not by fleeing like a child. With a snort, gathers his strength, the muscles of his haunches taut like pulleys on a catapult. He has just begun to move when something tears up from the ground beside him – something sharp and cold.

        Caneo bolts. One eye cocks back in confusion toward the attack, where a weird sort of pointed rock juts up from the ground. Its tip has broken through the yellow fabric of his costume, on the right side; he feels the cool point against his barrel, feels the sting of flesh scraped away and knows a small welling of blood will follow. He has not been impaled to any significant degree, however, and he tears away from the ice pick with a snort, his long legs churning through the muck. It hurts like being clumsy and skinning his knees. Caneo is old enough to keep moving despite the pain. He is old enough to look at the girl hurtling toward him and make some sort of decision about what he shall do to her.

        He notices wings – fragile things. This girl is a little smaller than Caneo and he harbors no hope of ducking under any part of her feathers. He thrusts forward blindly then, his long neck strung out, the pointed end of his costume like the ramming prow of a ship, but certainly more useless. She looks a little bulkier than he is, maybe – difficult to tell. He hopes her wings are fragile as the dragon man’s were. Caneo leads with an attack entirely lacking in subtlety or grace. He tries to slam the whole of his momentum into the front of her left wing, to smash as much of it as he can, to wrench it back and pull muscle and tear tendon apart. His long neck stretches out toward her withers or whatever bit of back presents itself. Black lips peel back and he aims to bite, too, though he handles this strike with less enthusiasm. Close combat is not his specialty; he prefers to hit and be away, to touch as little as he can. He doubts the usefulness of kicking in this awkward get-up, though, and so he does what he can to break the girl apart.

        He’s glad, at least, he isn’t fighting another brutish stud.

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attack: 1/2
word count: 792 words
notes: Banana!Caneo is dressed in yellow felt which is just stiff enough to hold its shape when no pressure is being applied to it from the outside (in other words, it's soft and won't poke anyone). The front of the banana pokes out from his chest, and the back pokes out from his haunches. There are leg holes in the bottom and a little hole for his tail, too.
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Took a small scrape to the right side of his barrel from the ice spike. Then he charged and tried to ram into her left wing, hoping the combined momentum of him running at her and her running at him would do some damage. Also tried to bite whatever part of her was nearby. Has not yet noticed she brought him a crocodile.