He slipped into anger with a well-worn shrug, and wore it proudly as a man with a new hat. Without anger, he was only a stallion, gruff and young, half his scars from the beatings of his father, the sire of a mare named Colt; but with anger he was the Incendiary, all hard teal eyes and pinned ears, brawn and muscle, and it was his home, fury, no matter if he lives in the hot desert or lingers beneath the shade of trees.

The brittle crunch of bones is loud in the air, an audible snap. Through his rain-drenched vision, he catches a glimpse of his sleek border collie, drenched by the storm, teeth shut around the abhorrent eavesdroppers’ wings. In a second the dog is thrown, the mare’s teeth shutting on his scruff to send him twisting through the air unnaturally, yipping in terror. There is a thud as Guns lands on his flank, head thrown back by the force, and he yelps, a sound full of heart-felt pain. Ricochet does not wait to see if his dog gets up. He spins, drops his head, and motivated by the whimpers of his dog, kicks out with all the strength in his tank-like body.

Nobody touches his damn dog.

His hooves make contact, hitting the flimsy joint of her precarious right foreleg.

There is blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his own tongue, and his maw tastes of salt and sweat and iron; but also of victory and success. Injuries like that don’t just hurt, they cripple. Her running quickly was as unlikely as fire in the rain… fire in the rain. “Fucking rain,” he curses, attention momentarily diverted as he flicks his eyes up to the sky. Ponderous gray clouds, all over and through and through. Damn. After hours of downpour, there was not a way in hell that he could get his magic working.

Ricochet didn’t need his magic anyways. This freak was good as dead. He was worth two fighters, and Dragomir was in the clearing, even as Shadow was struggling through the icy branches.
Together, they could crush her between them.

For a moment, Ricochet pauses, but then the second has passed. Guns will get up. He always does. And worry, emotion, had no place on the battlefield. With a single glance back at his dog, huddled in a heap of damp fur, licking at his wounds, he pushes out through the bushes, which bite at him, faintly reminiscent of his father’s teeth crunching down on him, the hooves battering him… the Incendiary shakes away the thoughts, sets his jaw and grins. The raven is trapped now; a corpse still walking.

Anger is replaced by satisfaction as he moves forward, muscles rippling beneath buttermilk coat, charging forwards in hopes to reach her, to deliver the final blow; and like Dragomir did with Ricochet (perhaps unintentionally), remaining outside of the barricade of willow trees, he moves ahead of the two dancers, a second line of defense in case she breaks free.

“Finish her Dragomir! Don’t let her go!” He shouts, voice full of testerone-buoyed excitement, teal eyes sparkling with a mad fervor.

And something does happen, for she screams like she’ll never stop, a scream that is defeat and horror and panic, and she wrenches by the brown tobiano, a flurry of black feathers and wide violet eyes and sweat, her scent ripe with fear and pain and rage. Her hooves kick out at him as he passes her, to stand beyond them, and they catch him on the tip of his left shoulder. With a startled grunt, the stallion quickens by her, and in doing so wrenches his shoulder further. Cursing, he quickens, careful to avoid over-using that leg again.

Confident, bold, and austere in his belief she will not pass, he lightens on his feet, brow furrowed, haunches tense, prepared to move in any which way she might try to slip by him.

She flies by him like a smear of dark shadow, and he twists around. “Guns, HERE!” The stallion snaps, and the collie comes, tail wagging slowly.

Then he plunges after Shadow, intent on stopping her, the branches of trees clawing at him and whipping at his eyes, stubborn and resolute on halting him, rain-water running in rivulets down from his spine, his hooves thudding softly on the damp leaves, teal eyes focused, ears locked to his tangled mane. A chase, tiresome and wearying, the outcome already determined.

He hoped Dragomir would follow.