_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

The answer to his call is not long in coming; the very universe seemed poised to heed his desires. It turns out the Grey-Eye’d was correct in his earlier assumptions. It is indeed a mare who answers him, bold and brazen with eyes that flash foolishly blue into his face. He watches her approach, and his own scrutinizing gaze is quick and trained as it rakes across her body. She is certainly not the same spindle of ivory he had encountered not so long ago in world of sunset. No, this one is all curves and lumps and fuller, fatter things that draw his eye in ways he does not care to admit. There is no beauty in the rough edges of her chest, the muscles rippling in an unladylike way underneath a tanned, dirty hide. It is just as well. He has never had much of a use for beauty.

She’s gotten his attention: grey eyes are locked onto her form, and she is his partner for this spar—his adversary (his prey).

He is amused by her brazen step, no matter the brainless ways she approaches the serpent. She is not the first woman of the desert to give him that look--and, more and more, he’s beginning to respect those forward, willful ways of the mares of the Throat. They take what they want; they refuse to hide their desire behind useless banter and weak filly ways. They break the mold of the conventional woman. They make the hunt easier.

…This is something different, however. He had not called the mare for an urge that now begins to thrum deep inside his veins, vibrating insistently as it nudges itself into wakefulness. He had called her to fight, to hone his body and fulfill his—duty—to this place. The focus is gone from that, however. He is distracted. She walks in his line of vision, and he sees a full body to sink his teeth into, a tail that lifts in invitation—

--then there is chaos, and he is assaulted by the debris of the oasis bed as water shoots in all directions from some sort of explosion that occurred beneath the waves. He is caught off guard; mud and wet clumps of sand rain down on him, and he is struck in his eye, blinded for the moment as he struggles to regain his composure. He backs up a step; it is a blind move and it is not enough to get him out of range from the mare as she knocks into him. Her chest is broad, her joints are sharp, and the point of her shoulder jabs into his chest as she passes by him; he is pushed back by her weight, stumbling backward a few steps even as the mud continues ooze into his eye. He snorts; he grunts; he tosses his head in an effort to clear his vision of the debris, even though it begins to pulse with something red—and savage.

Looks like you missed a spot, comes the taunt. For one blazing, glorious moment—he is lost.

His mother had taught him to dance in battle, to move with the flow of the fight with nerves held loose and waiting. In this moment he lunges and the grace of a dance is forgotten in a surge of brilliantly blazing anger; teeth flash from his black lips and he bolts toward her left side as she passes him, those fangs jaws of his aiming to plant a deadly sort of kiss against her wither. He thrusts his weight forward—eager to touch her should his teeth fail him, to shove her into the ground with nothing but the force of his chest and body in the brief spark of manic rage that possesses him in those moments.

It dissipates from him almost as soon as it sparks to life; the moment of insanity lifts. He regains the sense of his composure (They must not know he’s a monster!) but it is too late to stop the flashing teeth, the charging body—the fight is well and truly started, and there is nothing left but to finish it.





Attack: 1/3
WC: 698
"talk talk talk"