The air was dry as he breathed, thick with motes of dust that glittered in the sunlight. Ricochet stood square, weight balanced evenly over his hooves, head up and stretched out just in front of him, ears twitching and turning ceaselessly, impatiently, nostrils flared wide and drinking in the familiar scents of the forest; green chlorophyll, dirt beneath him, the musk of Guns’ dirtied fur.

Nieque granted his wish. It was the crackle and crunch of bracken and grass that first warned him of her presence, then the scent of winter ice and summer grass, and then it was the girl herself. She was pale as snow, with two massive antlers spanning from her head. Deer the Incendiary did not mind, hardly noticing them except during the fall when the sounds of their rutting clattered and clacked, echoing throughout the russet autumn forests. But their horns, on an equine? She must be a unicorn, albeit a more twisted one than usual. The stickheaded girl appeared to be the same age as him, if not younger, and judging from her pelt, had fought often before- but probably coming off the worse for it.

Beside him, Guns’ hackles rose, even as his head and neck sunk down and out, lips curling back to expose the yellow of his teeth. With his ears pinned and brown eyes focused in on the mare, he became not just a friendly collie, but a guard dog who liked to bite.

Just like his dog, Ricochet’s body language changed rapidly upon sight of the mare, even before she called out to him. His head snaked out in front of him, his ears locking to his skull, teal eyes hard as daggers, his tail lashing back and forth. They were head-on, and she was not far from him, the trees having obscured his view of her.

It is not her challenge that goads him into battle. It is her race that quickens his heartbeat and makes his blood boil. Unicorns. Ricochet fills his thick head with imagined stallions who have mated and bred with his family to produce hybrids and hideous racial mixes; there was Israfel, the tribaid, out of a god and Smoke; Cyrus, Aylin, and the brood out of Eva and a unicorn sire; and even his prodigy Jackal, born out of Silverline.

Betrayals, all for the sake of animals with horns. How could they have gone so wrong? How could they have strayed from their true blood, their friends, their family? Here he was, the lone ranger, surrounded by mutts and half-breeds.

All he wants is to watch this virgin mare bleed out on the forest floor, to pay for what her kind has done.

“Ricochet, bitch!” He snarls, lunging forward. Instead of ensuing the battle with feinting and dodging, backing out and charging forwards, he does the unlikely. Ricochet lifts off the ground with his forelegs; being balanced in front of himself already, he is tipping towards the mare, hind legs pushing off the ground behind him. He intends to scrape his forehooves down the front of her forelegs, to sheer hair from her shinbones in a most painful fashion.

Guns gives a short bark, a grating rasp of approval from behind him, before dashing towards the mare himself. It is a movement Ricochet and him have practiced many times, and it was not difficult to teach the collie to obey his instincts- herding, that is, until the mare has her hindquarters up to a tree and is unable to retreat. Instead of biting her, Guns snaps at the mare’s legs, teeth closing repeatedly on air- he does not intend to clamp down on flesh, but rather hopes to send her away towards one of the many trees.

As Ricochet had learned when he was younger and even more reckless, putting his back to a tree had been a great idea until he had just one opponent left. Stuck, he had been unable to maneuver or even, once he reached a certain point, be able to escape. The attacker had the advantage, for they could dance and press all they liked, while the other was forced to resort strictly to defense.

After attempting to batter at her shins, he drops back just by a stride or two, snapping at her face, eyes narrowed to slits. It would be easy for her to gouge an eye out with those antlers, so he is wary. Losing an eye would be a painful business.

The dust stirs beneath his pounding hooves, but he does not make his move yet. His magic had a tendency of charring his own flesh and burning his own hooves as well as his enemy’s- if it could be avoided, that might be best.

R I C O C H E T - -
blam, you're dead