He is called. From the depths of the realm of ice and cold, his name is spoken, and it is time. The position at hand is one he hardly has much care for, but when the notice had been posted that they were of odd numbers, he had volunteered to fight the stubborn bastard that so badly wanted the title. The crimson demon cared little who claimed the crown of second-in-command, but he did thirst for a fight, and he would not leave without receiving one. He thirsted for blood, for the wail of agony in his ears and the burst of copper on his tongue. Scarred flesh rippled, a wicked grin gleaming on his lips, pale face like a wraith of the snow below reflecting upon his features. Ivory dagger catches the light, glinting sharply, and he shudders almost erotically at the knowledge that he steps forward into the ring. There is no backing out now. Brother or not, Tolio will give his all, and to hell with the consequences. He has never cared for such foolish things, anyways. Breaking them was always far more fun.

Blood and snow hooves click eerily against the bare stones his challenger has chosen, slick with cold and shining in the moonlight of the all-mighty Bitch from above. He cast a smirk up at her glow. He would spill blood beneath her cool stare, and spit upon her name when he was finished. Turning he faces the brute he has been sized against, but he does not do well with peacocking. No, he would rather lunge straight into battle with fangs of vengeance and the passion of the demons that thirsted inside of him for the lifeblood pumping so uselessly in Descaro's body. Now shouldn't he be thanking Tolio, later, for ridding him of all that pesky fluid?

"Then a challenge you shall have," he growls, a sultry purr of promise. Win or lose, Tolio could care less. He wants only the bite of his muscles, the ache of his lungs, and the pain of a hit well placed or impartially received. Fools, the lot of them, for yearning for power that could only come with recognizing the abilities within your own body. He would take pleasure in at least making the big boy sore. He was smaller than Tolio, but far bulkier, and Tolio inwardly frowned. A shame, since his build was for sharp striking and speed. It would not do well to aid him, on such slick ground. Better than snow, he remembered with a sharp cackle, envisioning how he and Faelene had looked after their bout in the fluffy shit. Rather than wasting any more time, he charged, careful where he placed his hooves as he locked Descaro in his sights.

The night was clear, no pesky wind to whip his face like when he had fought Faelene, so Descaro was a clear target beneath the glow of Her Bitchiness. He approached head-on, assuming Descaro did not move to intercept him differently while he charged towards him. The bloody demon lowered his horn and arched his neck for impact, not wanting to snap his own neck on fat boy's muscled physique. How dull. As he approached he gathered his hindquarters beneath him, lunging forward in a rather risky move with the ground below them, forelegs poised to crash down on Descaro's left cannon bone. If he was lucky, his horn would distract the lug and hide his planned attack until the last moment. If not, he'd just use his momentum to slice the tip through Descaro's left side, from behind his shoulder to his left flank.

Snickering, his eyes flashed with a wild glee, the thrum of battle hot in his veins.

---
@[Descaro]
Word Count: 622
Post: 1/3
Sorry for the lateness caused by my absence, darling! And good luck in return!