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

Out of the corner of his eyes, Ricochet glimpses a silver ghost, a bone-white figure in the distance, and above he senses movement, a flicker of moonlight white feathers and ghostly silence following it. His voice rattles too loud in his scarred ears, and he falls silent abruptly, finding himself suddenly uncomfortable with his brash shouts among the whisper of the briny waves and the murmur of the gentle wind. Only moments after, Guns goes quiet too, and without his barking, he disappears into the shadows, melting in the darkness like a beaten coward.

There is only the crunch of sandy grit beneath his hooves.
The anger ebbs away from his chest, and the tension leaks from his rigid muscles. It was stupid of him, to get so wound up over something so simple. His dog was barking, and probably for good reason- why was it that he felt the need to shriek, to interrupt this still night, especially when he so rarely could enjoy the simple taste of salt and the ocean breeze ruffling through his ashen mane? Ricochet did know. He knew that he was goaded into action too easily by too small of issues, and that he was an idiot for it. It was only recently had he begun to take steps to withhold his tongue, as Gunslinger had told him to do for so long. At long last, the Incendiary was beginning to mature, and realize that he could not fight everyone he met, as he had done for so long.

Sometimes, it was better to think (even if he rarely tried to stop and think himself.)
Bound in shades of gray, the young mare who does not quite fit her skin approaches him, a second shadow at her hooves. Ricochet’s eyes harden warily, before relaxing, noting the youth in her gangly legs and slim chest, the wings too large for her young body. More concerning then the willow-thin girl was a canine, as different from Guns as an equine was from hybrid. It was of strong build, wiry and thin, almost emaciated, but it still retained a muzzle full of fangs. If there was any threat, it would be the dog he would worry more about than the girl, truth be told. A filly was just a filly- a predator was a predator.

The canine’s hackles are up, illuminated by threads of glacial cold moonlight, pale luminescence that glitters in it’s retinas, teeth bony white in the Orangemoon night.

Ricochet’s teal eyes flick up and away from the hellhound, resting on the pegasus’ face. There is a glint of fear, of illness in her features as she catches sight of his black scars disfiguring the side of his face, and the Incendiary’s mouth twists scornfully. She’s afraid of me. Or at the very least, he unnerves her, and he takes it with a grain of salt, faintly pleased. He likes being intimidating, the feeling of being feared (at least by those with wings and horns.) It buoys him up, makes him ever the more arrogant.

Her voice is innocence in its purest form, full of unintentional lyrical sadness, and the stallion lets his eyelids drift shut. Woven into her tone is a threat, a warning, but he cannot find it in him to be afraid, or even act afraid, around her. She is fragile as glass, no matter how tough and strong and twisted her dog might be.
If he were to be truthful, he almost pitied her for it.

“He’s not my bonded.” Ricochet says instead, tail flicking across his milky flanks, tightening his jaw imperceptibly. The dragon egg that he had dreamed of taking for his bonded had been shattered long ago, with any love for that elusive species ruined by Smoke’s glittering blue. Another mark had been left by Zaffre; the scar lean and mean across his face that was constant reminder of his vulnerability as well as his strength. “And if he were, it’s not your place to be lecturing me on how to take care of my bonded. I don’t go around telling strangers how to do shit, and neither should you. Someday someone will take a bite out of you for it.”

Just as he had taken a bite out of Alina.