but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

He wasn't entirely sure when he had traded madness for something less inspired, but he figured it had something to do with the aftermath of relief. Still, knowing was something one could do after, a time for reflection in the wake of the storms of war, but it irked him to run on faux anger when the man clad in wolf's gray belonged to such a hated faction of his past; he should be glorious in his thundering charge, a sunset full of blood and brilliance and heat pumping through his blood, not this.. this sense of performing a duty, closing the space between them again out of necessity rather than desire. The breath that had been so hot and harsh in the back of his throat wasn't exactly calmer, but there was no hunger in it anymore—no demands for Lace's blood.

Really, he would rather be picking daisies somewhere right now than do this.

What would they say if he broke off now? What would Lace think? Damn; he should've taken the chance when he had it, after the sunburst, when he still had the upper hand, when he could've gotten away with it—

It was about how far in his thoughts he got before his horn pierced thin air, and his chest slammed into Lace's retreating ass. Instinct had his neck curve right; silken hairs tickled his face, and a hard tail bone knocked lightly against his jaw. Friction rubbed him warm as the spindly butt slid against his left shoulder, before the slush of the ground took over and sent the intruder spinning away from him.

All it did was tear a grunt from him, and tease his frustrations.

What the hell am I doing here?

He was supposed to be a soldier; fuck, he'd been a general and won wars, he.. he.. he wasn't some diddering old fool going through the dumb motions with all the inspiration of a dead squirrel.

Well, tough luck—it was who he was for the day, hind-legs coiling to break his awkward momentum. He hated slush. He hated the muck-and-mud of spring, of his precious snow being soiled, of—

Get a fucking grip on yourself.

As quick as he could he spun to the right, and two things happened almost at once: a thin, snaking pain started to creep up his left flank, and Lace said something very important.

Time slowed to a crawl as the root's tip split white skin in a fine line, pearly red seeping out to the slow chorus of nerves starting to scream. The way his heart skipped a beat in fear and surprise was drowned out by the low roar of the waking beast within.

Torasin, he thought, teeth gritting against the blooming pain, even as something deeper whispered you were blind, you were blind to the attack, you evaded the brunt of it by dumb luck—Torasin, his breath seemed to say as he darted for the smaller stallion trapped between an avalanche of budding rage and a tree.

Torasin, he snarled silently, a swan of fire exploding out of his chest and nearly blinding him as it sped towards the gray stallion, singeing Mauja's mane and throat as it went.

(He came here, he demanded, he baited and provoked, and then, finally—he took the culmination of their twisted "truths" and spat it like damnation at him. At him, the one who had been haunted by what had transpired, haunted by images of that gold-and-cream gentleman frozen in mid-step, blooding running down an ice spike, he dared come here and take that and fling it at him like truth—)

Because didn't you know, that all the evil in Helovia had a single root: Mauja?

His eyes were ablaze with blue rage as he dug his hind feet into the muck, pulling his forefront up into the air; the thin flow of red from his flank grew thicker with the motions, the pain a dull echo lost in the haze of his anger.

(Because it was fucking unfair—)

Frosted hooves pummeled down, hoping to catch the shorter stallion's spine, and beat him to the ground.

To show them what real murder looked like.

(Because Torasin had been an accident.)

[ @Lace || 3/4 || 707 words. ]

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same