He's fucking exhausted, a sweating, heaving beast of pain and fatigue, his legs lost up to the fetlocks in snow. The creation of the golem has sapped at his strength, yet the sight of it striking the unicorn invigorates him. Through the howling snowstorm, he misses Rikyn's exact words, but not the tone of them; he smiles a macabre smile, borrowing his dragons' sharp eyes to watch the dance of golem and unicorn.

They show him the puppeteer rearing, which Volterra hopes will further injure that hindleg; they show him the great stone fist connecting with his side, the sight almost making the behemoth wince. But wincing would imply sympathy, and Volterra has none.

Then, suddenly, he feels his hindleg twitch. Oh, fuck no. He knows that sensation. He recognises it from his previous meeting with the unicorn, when he used his mind-control - and of every form of magic in Helovia, mind-control is the only one that Volterra truly detests. Fire, ice, stone; all can be conquered with a strong body and steely resolve. But to have something in your mind, in that private, sacred sanctum...it unsettles the behemoth, as much as he knows that he must learn to overcome it.

Last time, he managed to defeat it through sheer stubborn willpower - this time, though, he's weak, tired and in pain, and that is not a combination that makes resistance likely. Drastic measures must be taken, because like fuck is he allowing Rikyn the satisfaction of knowing his magic has worked. With a savage roar that rivals the thunder of the blizzard, Volterra bids the ground beneath his own body to erupt into a flat-topped spire, which stops just beneath his underbelly. His right hind leg - which his nerve impulses demand he lift up, kick with - finds its path blocked by the structure, so rather than kicking up at his underside, it simply scrabbles uselessly at the spire.

The scrape of his leg against the stone peels several pieces of skin free from the front of the limb, creating a faint stab of pain, but it is nothing compared to the smug satisfaction Volterra feels at the way he has conquered the bastard's wicked magic. He does not bend to any; he might not have been able to escape the grip of the magic fully, but he insured it harmed him on his own terms.

Now, it is time for revenge.

Before he can strike back, he hears both dragons scream into his mind - behind you! With another feral bellow, the brute crumbles his structure and hobbles painfully forwards a single step, meaning that only the tip of Rikyn's horn scratches against Volterra's well-muscled rump. It creates a light, thin laceration, nothing compared to the pain of his other wounds.

Not knowing how close behind him Rikyn is - there isn't time to borrow his dragons' eyes - Volterra lashes out with his still-lifted right hindleg, aiming to kick out at any part of the unicorn he can reach. He would have preferred to have kicked out with both powerful horseshoe-adorned hindlegs, but his seized chest forbids this. One will have to do.

After witnessing the fight from afar, there is now no force on earth that could stop Volterra's dragons from joining in for one last hurrah. In tandem they descend, like demonic, glimmering harbingers of doom. Vérzés darts through the snowstorm, fighting against the wind; he swoops low, aiming for Rikyn's injured left hindleg. He attempts to sink his teeth and claws into the leg and rip, trying to further the existing damage.

Simultaneously, Vadir flies higher, her mind pulsating with savage excitement at her first taste of battle. This is the first time she has been allowed to help, and her normally cold, calm mental state is replaced by bubbling anticipation and bloody glee. She turns and folds her wings, diving towards Rikyn's right side, the side with the broken ribs. The larger of the two dragons, her glimmering bulk is magnificent against the bright white of the snowflakes; she tucks her neck down and leads her flight more with her left side, like a golden wrecking ball. She aims to collide her whole body with Rikyn's injured right side to try and break those ribs more, because unlike Volterra she cares not that this is a spar. It is battle, and battle is for winning, no matter who the opponent.

Volterra, meanwhile, stands in blessed, blissful silence, revelling in the primal savagery of his dragons. His injuries pulse - especially his swollen, beaten chest - but he is satisfied with the battle overall. It is almost over, and he begrudgingly accepts that he has faced a worthy opponent today - and the difficult fighting conditions have taught him valuable lessons.

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Spar for @Rikyn !

Great fight Bunnie, I really enjoyed it! :D

3/3 - 799 words