Her backtalk is tiring and he responds not, simply flatten inky ears against even darker locks as he approach, steady as nightfall and as unyielding as the approach of winter. Every move, every step was agony enough to drive him halfway out of his own mind but rather than stopping and submitting to the striking truth of her words he press on, endure and hide within the rage and lust for blood.

Alas, that she doesn't run. It is with some regret that he hear the swing of ivory through the air and feel the clattering impact of spiraling bone against solid, rough diamond, as black as his soul and a stark contrast to her shimmering paleness. No doubt he would have appreciated the differences between them, had the stag had any understanding of what black and white was; he only knew darkness though, light being something he sometimes dreamed of in restless throes of sleep but never remembered when waking. A foreign concept, an idea he'd never been able to grasp, it mattered as little to him as sound to the deaf; he only knew that her skin smelled sweet as he made a twist of the head to lock her spear between his own upper and middle horns, that the warmth of her body radiated towards him through the biting cold air and threatened to burn his already injured bulk with its intensity.

Snorting in distaste over his own body and its sensitivity to the opposite gender he pushed in close, bone-clad nose threatening to press against the chiseled face of the mad girl; neck muscles swelled as he forced his head upwards, hopefully bringing the considerably smaller mare into a half rear, the equivalent of a choke hold of the neck.

"If you're not dying then neither am I" he whispered softly, voice coarse with pain and anger and a sudden overwhelming lust attributed to youth and the close proximity to a very live, very real woman. Really, the insane girl? His standards really were low - first rabbit and now wolf, what would he go for next, parrot? "So if neither of us are dying today, how are we going to do this, hm? You hurt me, mae fy blaidd bach annwyl, and I want revenge!" With the force of a derailed freight train Morir heaved himself forward, trying to press the head of the nameless cur up and back so she would have to turn or else topple over. He was fully aware that she might try to kick at him and that he'd likely faint if any greater force was applied to any of the wounds - but between pain and humiliation the latter was harder to stomach, and if you included the intriguing idea of her exposing a set of what must surely be luscious buttocks to him there wasn't much room left in his head for sense or reason.

He was a man, after all. Women had stated through times eternal that there wasn't much room in their heads, so why prove them wrong when the alternative was so much more rewarding?


@[Beloved]
mae fy blaidd bach annwyl - my dear little wolf

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