His colossal chest finds its target, albeit not quite the one he'd wanted, and the reverberations send shudders of pleasure through his titanic frame. There's something utterly carnal about fighting a mare, tangling his great body with her own, wrapping their skin and muscle around each other like two dragons in a mating dance. Perhaps it's the alcohol that still rampages through his system, or perhaps it's simply the fact that this beautiful woman sends frissons of heat down between his thighs, but he finds himself praying that this battle never ends, because it's so damn fun.

The behemoth tries to remind himself, though, that at the end of this fight might come something even better. If there's one thing he enjoys more than sparring a mare, it's taking that same mare beneath his weight, ravishing her body and replacing each cut and bruise with a bandage forged of pleasure.

His teeth come away with only hair, which is a slight disappointment given how keen he was to brand her with his mark. He's soon back on his guard, though, watching through narrowed eyes as she twirls again so she's facing his left side. Immediately he tenses, unwilling to expose his maimed left shoulder to her - he might be enjoying this battle, but he'll enjoy it considerably less if his already throbbing shoulder is gored further by her antlers. Instead she aims for just behind the wound, something that he knows he should scold as weakness but which he simply can't bring himself to, because it comes as a great relief that the painful gash isn't going to be savaged further. Volterra might be a warlord, a king of the battlefield who revels in every part of his craft including receiving wounds from his opponents, but that doesn't mean he is a glutton for pain. He feels his wounds the same as any other man, and he knows that another blow to his shoulder would have been crippling.

His gratitude for her act of mercy doesn't mean he's going to let her have it all her own way, though. With a feral grunt, the stallion throws his hindquarters to their right, seeking to pivot around so that the attack won't hit him with full force. Her antlers slash against the skin just behind his left shoulder, creating an array of small, medium-depth cuts that sting and bleed, but they are not unbearable and nor do they inhibit his movement like his first injury does. The leviathan continues his pivot, moving his hindquarters around the planted counterweight of his forelegs to minimise the movement of his shoulder, until he's hopefully facing her own left side again. "You're doing well," he growls, reassurance ringing in that thunderous voice of his. "Once more - try to avoid my attacks if you can." He launches forwards, trying to slam his massive chest into her left ribcage this time. He doesn't truly wish to break any of her bones, but he's not accustomed to pulling his punches at this stage of a battle. He hopes he can barge her over to her right and force her into submission, bring her to her knees before him so they can get on with whatever delightful treat is going to follow this spar.

Simultaneously his teeth lunge forwards once again, trying to rain bites down upon her left side and back like miniature bullets. He wants to plant bruises across her body, mark her as his, utterly dominate her, until the battle ends and he can kiss better every piece of damage he's caused her.

Tiredness pulses through his system and there's sweat liberally beaded across his titanic form, but he is not exhausted courtesy of the fact that he hasn't actually done a great deal of moving around. The constant sting in his shoulder is only barely numbed by alcohol and adrenaline, but he knows he can cope with it until the bitter end of this particular tangle. The distant hum of conversation from the depths of the Grove reminds him that he'll probably have to return to the fray to meet his next date, but he can't think about that right now - his attention is fully, unequivocally focused upon Aelfwine.

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Teaching spar for @Aelfwine !

3/3 - 703 words