She wheels around - oh, he remembers this from their infantile sparring as newborns, how swift and nubile she is, like a sleek gazelle next to his slow, heaving lion! - and he has time to register the fact she's smiling. She's smiling. They're about to crash together, two great titans of flesh and power, and she's fucking smiling.

Black spots of fury explode behind his eyes.

They collide. Volterra's subconscious notes, with a considerable sense of irony, that a few moments ago he had the opportunity to collide into her, to unite their bodies in a writhing statue of sweat and pleasure. Now, they collide in a dance of a different sort - the primitive thunder of war. She stumbles to her left, whilst Volterra - with his superior size and weight - stands unmoved, rooted like a tree. The point of impact does create a medium-depth bruise upon his right shoulder, however, and a muffled grunt escapes his jaws at the sudden burst of pain. He arrests his momentum, grinding to a halt and commanding the small plateau of earth to crumble back into the ground; he shifts his weight backwards, assuming she is going to strike back, and sure enough, she does. Her lashed hindleg just misses his foreleg, courtesy of his backwards movement, and smug euphoria spreads momentarily through him.

See, sister? I'm not as stupid as you think.

But the euphoria is shortlived. This is still not something to be savoured - it is just something to be done. He naturally assumes that he will dominate her, put her in her place, and then they will forget about this little incident and go back to being the best of friends, the closest of allies. It does not cross his mind that this could change everything between them.

He reassures himself that it won't. Like any broad who gets above her station, she needs taking in hand every so often, needs reminding of her place. She will understand - she has to.

He spares a half-second to drink her in, to scrutinise her as an enemy instead of a sister. She is quicker, sharper, cleverer than him, yet he is larger, stronger, and more experienced. The unremarkable landscape around them will have little influence on the fight, save for the dying sun which Volterra is careful to keep at his back.

Suddenly, he can't see - his vision is blurry, coagulated blood spreading across his eyeballs and obscuring his sight. He roars, furious, swinging his head to try and clear the cloudiness from his eyes, but to no avail - he can't fucking see.

Vérzés, lend me your eyes now! he commands. The red, obedient this time, not daring to defy master twice in one day, duly obliges. Volterra is suddenly staring out from his dragon, a quite surreal experience as he looks down at his own colossal frame flailing stupidly against thin air. It takes quite an effort for the behemoth to use his eyes in the sky to direct his body on the ground - he stumbles blindly forwards, aiming a hard bite for the dock of Nymeria's tail. When he can only see through Vérzés' eyes, it really isn't the time to try anything more intricate. His right forehoof kicks vaguely forwards, trying to flick his hoof into the back of Nymeria's right hindleg.

Meanwhile, Vadir releases a roar that shakes the ground around them, that sends birds spiralling up from the trees and rodents scurrying into their burrows. The runt avoids her attack - she easily halts before she hits the ground, her royal blood ensuring her agility is second to none despite her giant size. She is fury, she is wrath, she is queen, and by hook or by crook she will show this little black shit that he is nothing. She demands that he bow, and he will bow!

To add insult to injury, the runt dares to try and dominate her - him, dominate her! The impunity, the arrogance! She swerves out of the way, and swings her massive tail towards him in an attempt to slam the full length of it into him, the savagely sharp knife on the end flicking barbarically to try and cut through his scales and into the flesh beneath. The queen pulls no punches. She is not like Volterra, or even Vérzés, in that she does not understand the concept of going easy. To her, it's either a fight, or it isn't.

In the same movement, she flips around to her right, twisting like a gleaming golden fish; another torrent of flame bursts from her jaws, aiming to drown the black in his own funeral pyre.

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Spar for @Nymeria!

2/3 - 783 words