There is delicious fear in her orbs, wideness to her gaze that Kipp knows intimately. He has cooed to it like a mother to her child, settled it in like a virus in their soul whenever Mandrake uttered the name of the victim. It is like an aphrodisiac to him, the red that sends the bull into frenzy. She is like a statue, still and frozen, and there is a dawning horror on her visage that he can read. Regret. Good, she should regret calling to him, thinking she is able to defeat any who answer her call. Had Archibald or Knox answered, would she be alive after this battle? Having no information on her, he can’t summon the heart to say he’d feel bad for her passing. Perhaps he will teach her a lesson.

The heat is sweltering and his coat is perspiring, darkening into slate grey. But his charge is not to be underestimated, for he knows that this is the only chance for him to use the little speed he has; uses it to instill fear, to maximize his mass in her vision. Where they should collide there is a flurry of movement, much of it distorted with the heat that causes the horizon to ripple, and the hurricane of hair that engulfs the both of them through movement. Landing hard, Kipp hit the ground forehoof first, jogging a few paces to let the momentum pass and prevent him from becoming a sitting target. Already he is turning back towards the femme, jaw clenched in anger that she dare evade him. How, he doesn't know. But she will fall beneath his hooves like the countless victims he had slain with his brothers, watch her gasp and hear her squeals of terror and agony. See the white of her eyes; watch her lifeblood stain her coat. There is no Kipp in this beast, only a machine that will not stop hunting until its prey is dead or has escaped.

Her display of bravado, a snort and dip of crown, only makes Kipp bare his teeth to her in a nasty skeleton grin, ready to show her the pain of such a grip. She wastes no time, and he is still trying to circle as she charges, unwilling to stop too short or too fast. His left side is her prey, and the antlers he so despised crooked towards him like devilish, beckoning fingers. Instead of cowering or running to avoid her, Kipp charges towards her in return. Let her spear him! Let her see the devil that shall awaken once his blood is spilled! The earth would shake in his rage just as his brother’s, and she would suffer. As they near she lunges, but he has already been moving- arcing to his left to face her, not quite head on as he is angled slightly towards her left ear, unable to straighten fully in the time given. What a fool she is! Her front end rises, and Kipp in turn ducks down. It is hard, the pounding of her hooves stirring dust that stings his eyes and impedes his view, and his height working against him, but she has aided him in her flight heavenward. With the angle he has, crown is dipped and horn once more pointed for her, low as he can possibly get to his Lord’s domain, ready to pierce or sharply skim her left shoulder, perhaps even an inch or so of her left breast. Antler points are not made to reach this low, for it would block the vision of any elk, a natural prey animal. There is clearance here, both in their opposite directions towards sky and earth, and in natural flaw of defensive attributes. But being this close while she lunges, the both of them shoving towards each other, has its consequences. Hooves strike him, but not where she intended. Instead they scrape and sear his belly, nicking his left fore elbow, for his left shoulder is positioned to hopefully slam into her left breast. It hisses and stings fiercely, but with less ferocity than if it had struck his legs as she’d- so he’d thought in that moment- desired.

The lowest point of her antlers scrape his right hip, catching some of his flank and the swell of his hindquarters, leaving a flaming streak of pain. Kipp curses his height, eyes shut tight against the sand, hoping to cut and slam her so close to her chest. Being so close to her heat only makes him sweat further, but close combat is where he excels, and he cannot complain. The sun scalds his spine, belly and ass aches angrily with his forward movement, hip scrape exposed to burn hotter beneath the scorching sun. Fucking. Antlers.

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WC: 796
Attack: 2/4
Defense: 0/1
Injuries: Cut/scrape down left underbelly, slight scrape on left foreleg's elbow. Scrape along right hip and hindquarter.