It’s deep.

It plunders him with a short, ‘wanting’ cry that sends a gratifying pulse through Ru.

Is this the joie de vivre?

Embracing failure with success. The taste of him is mortal, of iron and velvet fur. He lacks hardy, acrid male musk, but it’s more enthralling than the overwhelming scent of stallion, and fertile.

His scent is flora, pliant.

The disturbing voice behind her eyes hums with a - I want more. And in the world that surrounds her mind, trapped by the heat of sparring, she forgets if it’s worth staking her honor on such desires.

Ru attempts to drive her chest into him, disregarding her futile attempt to kick him squarely in the neck – or shroud his eyes. As she presses against him, the specter escapes her grip and darts off with the ebbing breeze. Ru is rewarded at least, by the touch of thin, delicate skin.

Blood hangs upon her lips, as she spies her handiwork on Toulouse’s shoulders. Her gaze narrows, ignoring the pomp in his stride – the whistle in his hair, and the flag of his tail. The mare becomes more focused, more aware when the pain slowly ebbs free from her mind, and displaces across her rump with a splatter of coagulating blood.

Blood.

She imagines she’s tasted blood before. The memory is lost to her now though, and the taste that rests across her tongue is fresh, novel. Ru licks her lips, her eyes zero in on the serpent’s gaze. Not entirely aware of how he came about such power moments ago to invade her head.

Ru’s heart skips with the possibility that it might happen again.

What have we learned? The pain in her body reminds her.

The stallion is quicker than the girl expects – perhaps even stronger. That he moves effortlessly before her, having not unraveled from the strain of battle or succumbed to the uneasy ground. Indeed, he is almost like her; their souls wage an endless war, and they dance to strike at the most opportune of times. Endurance – that was supposed to be her thing.

So.

What does that make me? She is not a snake, she grumbles. But I do enjoy his taste. His taunt rolls forth, only to pass by her shoulders and disperse into the foreground. With a heavy, thirsty inhale she responds with a bulky rumble – a pushing of weight forwards, and a desire to end him.

Her strides find purchase on the ground, having to strain in the displacement of their weight. The ground is remarkably slippery in the wake of spring, the sea spray – lilting above the cliffs send a constant source of moisture.

She intends to change the course of her weight before they meet. Uncertain of where this change in direction might lead her, she braces for the unknown.

Before they meet, he takes a grand leap. And as he begins to thrust his body from the momentum he’s already charged with, she attempts to halt. Lending more weight to the hind leg closest to her opponent’s position. Sending her in a slight skid that hopefully angles her body towards them.

But he’s a step ahead. She takes his strike at her legs slightly dumbfounded by his proximity. Shifting her weight back, he only manages to knock off the one nearest to him. Her other foreleg takes the weight – along with her hindquarters. It leaves Ru in a very awkward, stretching state when her vulnerable fore leg folds; a sort of half bow. Her ears flatten back, the woman tries to back away – his looming body sends the feathers along her neck to unfurl and spike. Sensing danger, sensing imminent regret and –

- PAIN!.

The viper latches on. His teeth sink into her neck – past milky feathers, through flesh, unraveling muscle fibers from where they puncture her.

The dunskin holds back tears that gather at the edges of her eyes. Her cry pitches – for a moment she feels as if – she can hardly move from the grip that clutches the spine of her neck.

MOVE! The thought flashes with the injury, urging desperately through the fog of exhaustion – nearing, closing in. MOVE!! DAMN IT!!

Wings furiously open, beating heavy as she decided to push into Toulouse. The wind is her ally, it has never left her side. It surrounds her, it reminds her that she is just as enduring as the gales that killed her mother.

Ru yells her war cry in defiance. Stepping into him, and casting her body up with a powerful rear, aided by the furious drive of wings. She casts out her bruising forelegs, with the intention of striking the serpent down below her.

Hooves that beat, and claw, aiming for neck or chest.

Joie de vivre!

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