Ricochet felt a twinge of satisfaction as Alina jerked her head away from Guns. There was the faintest pop as she pulled her hooves free from the clinging mud, taking a step or two away from the collie, and at the stricken look on her snowy face, his sadistic joy was followed by the faintest flicker of… not, surely not guilt, but surprise. She was so incredibly naïve; the pegasus was so secure around him, as if he was her friend, as if a stranger could not dream of doing her harm. Who had raised her? Some old stallion grinning, a young mare deep in love? If his father hadn’t been Gunslinger, how different would Ricochet be? No, not even his father, if he hadn’t been raised in Isilme? What would it be like, living without passion and anger?

I’m turning into a philosopher, the Incendiary muses, and with a bob of his skull, he shakes away the thoughts like Guns shakes his head when it rains.

In any case, the world ate gullible souls like her for breakfast. Look at her now! She was smiling at him again. Fucking again! This time, Ricochet physically flinched, his buttermilk skin twitching over thick muscle and brawn, and he took a hasty step back, even as she employs more flattery in her case. “Can you quit grinning!” He blurted, teal eyes narrowing. With Alina he felt foolishly young again, like he had when he followed at Gunslinger’s heels with his head low, every idea shouted down and the teeth of his father never far away.

She’s coming towards her, all silver and cream and dust, and horrified, he takes another step backwards, almost tripping over himself in his disgust and nerves. For a pegasus, she was terribly graceful, with the sway of her hips and the curl of her swan-like neck. Filth, the stallion thought to himself, even as he tips back his head and twists back his upper lip in the flehmen response, taking in her scent. Alina smells like dust and charcoal and sand, like feathers with the faintest undertone of sweat.

Ricochet meets her eyes, emerald eyes, and he squirms uneasily beneath her gaze, before tearing his eyes away. At a languid pace, his collie gets to his paws, parted jaws closing firmly, ears flicking back, mirroring the Incendiary’s pinning audits.
Just exploring, she says, and Ricochet sighs, a deep sigh that rattles in his bones and aches in his lungs. There is dust everywhere. And then Alina whispers she wants to hear his story.

“It’s a fucking bloody story,” the Incendiary growls, and after he says it he almost regrets it. She has probably never even heard fuck before in her life. Whatever. Time for a bit of carnage in her perfect angelic world. Still she’s approaching him, and the smell of her takes up his world, dust and sand, and the white of her wings framed against the ashen sky. Her wings. So hideous… so imperfect… if only he could tear them off… then he might be able to properly enjoy her strange company.

The clay is glowing, smouldering beneath his hooves as she approaches.
Her breath is hot on his withers.

“FUCK OFF!” Ricochet screams, and Guns shoots beneath Alina’s hooves, sending up globs of clay, but no dust.

The clay ignites, beneath the Incendiary and possibly beneath Alina, searing his delicate frogs and turning the mud-like substance hot and sizzling, flame licking up thinly, and he roars in pain as the ground burns beneath him. All he can smell now is searing flesh and burning hair, the hideously familiar scent of his magic which so often injured him. Now he would have new scars, not that he was thinking it- no, he was charging towards Alina, teeth bared and shouting curses, every step hurting unbearably.

“I SAID FUCK OFF!”