_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

He emerges from the oasis; water cascades from his sides, pouring in thick ropes even as he shakes himself from head to toe. He feels the air kiss his sides, his sopping-wet neck, but it is a feeble kiss regardless; there is no breeze here, only the bite of the summer sun against his back. He revels in the teeth of the sunrays against his skin. He breathes the heat, flexing his neck, his shoulders, his quarters, prepping his body for what is to come.

He is a soldier--and, as such, he must fight, run off to war at the merest word, the instance of an intruder, the impression of a threat. He is shackled to this obligation, willingly imprisoned, and it is this duty that chafes at him the least. His blood runs ever thick, hot and bubbling in his veins, the serpent gliding along his arteries silently, still considering unmasking itself to these people (although, as always, he decides against it, for a monster inspires fear and panic and he is not quite prepared for such an opportunity). No, he is awesome even when cloaked in his mundane skin, a proud, fine specimen of a man. He can fight his battles with his bones of stone; his fangs are quite unneeded.

Besides, he is curious. He knows these soldier ranks are filled with the weaker sex, and here now is his chance to investigate their effectiveness. It is very likely he will find himself paired with a female, and for a much different reason than what he is used to. He is no stranger to the fighting woman—was not his gypsy mother such an example? Did she not teach him herself the ways of the warrior, the dance of a flexible body that can dodge the hardest blows? He shall test the mettle of his… comrades…and see for himself just why they choose to throw their women to the front line.

His coat remains plastered to his skin, his muscles defined, his body taut and sensitive to the heat. He lifts his head, and a heavy sort of whinny escapes his maw—a dark-lipped call, an offer of partnership in a sparring match. He moves himself to a place where the sand refuses to shift; his tail glides behind him, shifting ever so lightly in the high sun.

He waits; he will be patient for this.




@Shida !
Setting: Dragon's Throat; high noon, sunny day, minimal shadows; solid footing; hot, no breeze.
Attack: 0/3
WC: 400

"talk talk talk"