Unlike Rikyn, Imonada wasn't exactly charged for this; her original intention was birthed from the weight of ineptitude upon her shoulders when facing the fallen gods, her lack of martial skills delegating her to being the support of support. It was battle floundering, even if she incited a good rally once with her hefty set of lungs. She wanted, no needed to know how to fight, and it didn't matter if conflict annoyed her like a spoiled child's caterwauling. It was the currency of their world; they traded in violence. So her skill-set needed to broaden a bit, for a fly on the wall was no good smashed and there were some things in this life that no one could outrun. If she were blessed with only minor intelligence, she'd still know that combative might was not simply going to be bestowed upon her by the power of her wishing. At the very least, the gods demanded sacrifice.

She was going in knowing that she was likely to lose, but that sat fine with her; the real prize was what she would be able to learn. Her failures and losses would be as valuable as any win, if not more so under certain light. She had faith she would become a credible force in a short order of time, if she pushed herself. This lead her to today, to now, standing in front of the tall stallion she met several months back when spring was maturing into her summer form, having agreed to a sparring match. He was as leonine as she remembered, striking and dark and mystic. It would be a lie to say she was not intimidated; ignoring her own emotions was foolhardy, for they were the single most transmutable insights into her body and mind's overall status. They were invaluable, if handled correctly, as any asset ought to be.

"If you insist," she quips, making it clear she does not sense any amount of chivalry or altruism. She could see his face just fine, after all, with a gleefully predatory gleam in the gold of his eyes. She had watched him from a distance earlier across the river, piqued she could not move in from the cover of shadows, or darkness. Could not spy on him a bit before the row from a better position. Worst of all, she couldn't ambush him; she had no doubt he'd go for one of his own if the opportunity arose, even if she wouldn't be considering it had a spar not been brought up. It wasn't like she wanted to kill him, at any rate. 

True lust for a fight waits behind closed doors within her; it is not ideal, in her mind, that she cannot conjure up the thirst prior to the battle, but she knows entering that dance with him will awaken it. On such an even playing field, it seems an unequivocal attack was mandatory; she adjusts herself, rolling her joints, feeling a stretch as she primes her body. Tight stepping in place is his only warning before she launches herself at him, hooves ripping into the brittle meadow grasses, holding herself in such a way that she as streamlined as a bullet, chin tucked to her neck, the muscles of her chest rippling like ink as she bares toward him. For all intents and purposes, it looks like she'll barrel into him, but her real goal becomes clear when she is close enough to toss her head, mouth open wide, lips pulled back to reveal hard teeth that are ready grab onto his jugular, her upper half lifted into a half-rear that may throw her breast against his.