R I C O C H E T - - raise your GUN and it's over

Clouds of crystalline silver smoke billowed from his nostrils as he moved, frost and moonlight turning his buttermilk coat to pearl, glittering in a thousand muted shades of gray. The dark of his mane and tail was rich and deep against the clandestine white of his star-brushed coat, and he shone with a dull light.

Ricochet moved at a languid pace, just quick enough to keep his hot blood thrumming through his red veins but slow enough that he did not tire. During the first weeks of autumn, the temperature had plummeted without warning, giving his body little time to grow out a winter coat- still, he had acquired a thick fuzz that was particularly luxurious beneath his jaw and fetlocks. Grains of wet sand clung to his hooves with a stubborn vigor, and he had long stopped trying to knock off the grit. Every once and a while, he paused to look out over the tides, nares flaring to pick up the stench of decay and salt, before moving on, keeping out the cold.

Lagging on his trail came Guns, who, invigorated by the ocean breeze, capered and frolicked at his heels, darting every which way after little pinching crabs and biting at sand fleas which seethed in the ground beneath their feet. The Incendiary was envious of his dog’s foolish happiness- it was impossible to get the dog unhappy, though he never had exactly tried. He was not that kind of cruel.

The whisper of the ocean sucking at the shore keened mournfully in Ricochet’s ears, a continuous murmur that lulled him into a state of security that was difficult to shake. It was peaceful. Quiet, dark, the only sight for miles the white-topped waves crashing down on the shore. How quickly such a concept had become foreign to him- peace! Grazing and pawing through the sand, watching his dog romp and roll, having the very time of his short life. Gunslinger would tell him to toughen up, that peace could only happen later, at the removal of those that threatened that elusive hope there would be a dawn where the equines ruled… the Incendiary’s ears flickered back, pinning to his skull momentarily before twitching forwards.

These were the moments that did not make him angry. Here, walking on a beach shining with moonlight, he would not dream of death and destruction. For once, he would breathe easy, and choke back the scent of rotting kelp and washed-up corpses happily.

He inhales hungrily.
Guns goes flying by him, every wavy hair illuminated by the white thread of the constellations.
And his peace is shattered by the barks of his dog, torturously loud in the relative quiet.

“Shut up!” Ricochet snarls, spittle flying from his sooty lips, splattering the wet sand with white foam, and his heart pumps louder in his chest, thudding against his ribcage as the familiar sensation of anger presses on him. “SHUT UP!” He shouts louder in frustration, but the dog keeps on barking, flying towards a dark figure who was a plain shade of monotonous gray in this black-and-white world.

A shape with wings.
Guns goes quiet, falling back towards his companion's hooves, and Ricochet halts, memories lingering over another mare he met not so long ago, white as fresh-fallen snow and now burned.

He wonders if the pegasus will be stupid enough to approach him- him in all his scarred, volatile glory.