There was something satisfying about returning with only one intention in mind- to fight. To resolve all arguments with the meaty smack of flesh on flesh, to pick them battles recklessly whenever and wherever he went, to be declared victor again and again. A year ago, when he last been in Helovia, he had still been young, hardening but slowly. Now he was stronger than ever, and only just entering the years of his prime; muscle was carved deep into the lines of his neck and broad haunches, sweat glistening on his manhood and around his eyes, all thick brawn with heavy testicles to boot. Not only had his body had developed, but his appetite as well. He was not just a pale boy this year, but a stallion with a stallion's hungers and a stallion's lust, with an eye for the mares and a keen appreciation of those who dared to challenge him- for he loved to beat them, time and time again. Ricochet was an invincible bastard, who took to arms with a feckless grin on his burnt face, and he dreamed glory and a world washed in the blood of his enemies every time he took to sleep, like any other young arrogant soldier.

He entered the now familiar Threshold languidly, an insolent swagger to his stride that declared him to the world as a fearless man. Shafts of sunlight glistening on the wetness of his scarred, rough body, highlighted and accentuated the fullness of his body. Dust stirred beneath his hooves, drifting around his legs, perhaps hungry for the familiarity of him. Today was a good day to return, when the particles of sunbaked earth choked the lungs and glittered in the air- which served his ability to turn dust to fire well. Now he was only waiting for someone to meet him, and with any luck that somebody would be a hornhead or a skyrat. They would approach, thinking they were about to meet a meek boy, only to find themselves greeted by a warrior whooping battlecries as he runs headlong to them, teeth bared as way of smile and ears pinned in way of greeting. He was hungry for a fight today, he was- practically starved for it, in fact.

"Guns, go," Ricochet grunted, tail whipping his flanks to drive away the flies drawn to the sweetness of his dewy flesh. The sun glittered in his hard eyes, shining richly on his buttermilk skin. It was fucking hot, the heat burning on his creamy skin, but he ignored the burn of the sun on his back, wryly remembering the pain of a dragonfire flame. That pain put everything else to mere mosquito bites. Beneath his hooves the dry grass crackled, the air smelling of cloying flowers and pollen, and the birds fell silent as the pair of canine and equine moved by, no doubt wary of the wiry-haired collie shooting ahead from Ricochet's flank, slavering heavily at the jaws, eyes gleaming joyfully as he chased at a rabbit.

The horse watched as the rabbit got away from the snarling jaws of his pet.

As Guns dug his paws in and flew after all manner of assorted life, Ricochet's thoughts drifted away, towards Kimber and his other half-sister, Aerwen, and from Aerwen it went to Jackal, his nephew. A scowl creased his lips. How could she have allowed a unicorn to mount her? Was it that fucking hard to kick a stallion in the gut as he slipped his dick inside you? It shouldn't matter, these grim thoughts, but it twisted a knife in his stomach that his own half-sister had turned against Nieque and all he stood for to go moping after some unicorn man-whore. He would have to pick up the slack his sister had left behind her pregnant belly- he, the Incendiary, would ensure that horses would prosper, and only the real horses, not the twisted freaks of nature.

Freaks of nature. Smoke had birthed the spawn of a god here, hadn't she? Some girl... Israfel, was that her name? She had warned him off culling the sickly thing. The girl would be older by now however- perhaps he should go chasing after her, bring her down like a wolf did fawn.

No, Smoke would not forgive him if he killed her daughter, no matter what he thought of it. Although perhaps she would later come to terms with it, realize the favor he had done...

Fuck, his family was corrupt, it's purity savaged by mistake after mistake.
Good thing he was here to save it.

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

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