His screams receive no reply, but the crazed stag doesn't care. The thought that his prey might have swallowed its own tongue in fright at the sight of him is encouraging, it fills him with a maddened desire to jeer and gloat. Alas, that he be too busy pummeling the ground! He feel his feet strike flesh at least once, which encourage him to keep going; the rain-soaked ground grow muddy and wet beneath his feet as he slam down again and again, the force of his rage enough to dig deep into rock and soil until the earth beneath his feet is no more than a pit of thick, pasty clay that would have made a potter pee themselves in joy.

Eventually though, it penetrates even his blood-filled skull that only earth is receiving the force of his wrath. With a final slam that splash clicks of the porridge-like muck high up onto his own chest and legs the swarthy beast freeze, stilling himself so quickly it is almost eerie. He keep the head high, chest heaving as he suck in rapid yet silent breaths; and atop the skulled head the ears are alive, listening intently for any sign of life. For some time all he can find is the landscape around himself. The wind is picking up now, likely ushering close a storm or other; it explains the rain that fall with increasing intensity, smattering against his steaming hot skin and rush in rivulets down long, muscled legs. The area is silent. The birds that aren't in hiding have quieted themselves while witnessing the battle of the giants, terrified or scornful as they stare; Morir assume the first, because it's the theory that suit him best - or at least he would have, if he'd had anything in mind at all but the insolent horse and where his ass had gone - he was aching to find it and rip it open.

Finely chiseled nostrils quiver beneath the weight of pallid bone, vibrating against the clammy skull as he draw deep, searching breaths. His upper lip lift and curl as he analyze the scents, ignoring those of rain and earth and his own sweat in favor of the sweet, salty, metallic tinge that is blood. Then, suddenly, a hoarse breath is drawn from somewhere behind him, accompanied by hooves over water-logged leaves. Sensing danger the hellion react, on the drop of a hat he heave to the right and spin, so fast on his feet that the rear end up sliding off and nearly bring him to the ground. As he does so the body of the other stallion sweep past where he had stood, sensing movement while hearing the whistling as air rush off the tips of sharp antlers.

A deep, booming laughter erupt from his chest when he realize that the other have missed again. It's a horrible sound, cackling and evil, riddled with triumph and loathing; Morir lean back on his haunches and heave himself into a rear, high, higher, highest! in the air, forelegs flailing as he dared his opponent to continue. "Are you really that eager to die, mother-fucker? Because I'm only too happy to oblige! Last chance, silver-tongue, or I'll rip your fucking tail off and wear it as a scarf!"

He prayed that the cur would be stupid enough to go on, because Morir could do this all day.
____________________________________
PC: Closing defense
WC: 566
Ooc: Landed the blow on Thran, then kept beating the ground without noticing how he slipped away. Stopped, listened for signs of where he were, heard when he moved in to strike and moved aside to the right. He spin around, slip a little but then gather himself to rear, daring Thran to keep going.

Thank you Hawk, this was so much fun! <3

"I embrace the thorny rose to my chest and
fall into the crimson sea
I continue dancing upon the
piled bodies until I die"