"I beg your pardon...fuck with you?"

Bartholomeo is no prude, but he's a little taken aback by the the mare's brazen request. He knows it's just a figure of speech, that she's really alluding to a fight, but that doesn't mean that the tri-coloured stag cannot shamelessly play upon that rather easily-misconstrued sentence. "And I thought you wanted to fight me, Miss Ros! Should I be worried for my virtue?" He flashes the stout little mare a wide, cheeky grin and offers a wink that shows he's entirely jesting with his words. The pirate is a fun-loving sort of fellow, and he senses that this Roskuld is made in the same vein. He could be wrong, of course, and could receive a hoof to the face for his troubles, but that's what they're here for, is it not?

Although his body has slipped unbidden into battle mode - muscles tense, antlers held ready, knife twitching in his mane as his lips crave the warm sensation of the hilt between them - he's still relaxed as he keeps pace with his blue-marked General. At her request for his name, the stallion dips his head in an elaborate bow and gives another warm wink of his earthy-green eyes. "My name is Bartholomeo, but please, call me Bart." His tongue itches with the unsaid words that, in a previous life, had followed each utterance of his name - the Scimitar. He isn't the Scimitar any more - he shed that title the day he buried his wife and son, and earning it back will be a lengthy process that he's not entirely sure he wishes to begin.

Roskuld gives him the first move, and he immediately sets himself in preparation. Their surroundings are unremarkable - it's a hot and stuffy evening, so he imagines that they might tire as the fight progresses, but the ground underfoot is the perfect combination of hard and springy to provide the ideal battleground. After this swift assessment of the landscape, the bay turns his attention to his erstwhile opponent. She's small, a hand smaller than him, but he doesn't for a second assume that she's weak with it. Bigger isn't always better - a joke he's made a thousand times with his men during rowdy nights of booze and women - and in this case he'd hazard a guess that their strength is fairly equal. The mare is sturdy, hardy; she's built like a brick shithouse, to coin a phrase. Bartholomeo's main asset will be his agility, which is surprisingly high for a man of his bulk and size. He's nimble thanks to his years of fighting in close quarters with bloodthirsty scoundrels, and he hopes he might catch her off guard with his ability to maneuvre like the wind around her.

The stag feels at something of a loose end with the loss of his magic. Once upon a time, he'd have been able to send his swords twirling around him with a single flick of his mind, commanding them to attack his opponent and thrust terror into the depths of her heart. Alas, he has no assets except his body and his heart, and they will need to be enough. With a playful wink at his stout young foe, the stallion charges. He attempts to approach Roskuld head-on, his chest thrust out to use as a battering ram as he seeks to slam it hard into her own chest, a favoured move of his during his pirating days. With his above-average size, Bartholomeo could often knock smaller foes straight off their feet with one well-placed chest-smash, and whilst he doubts he will be able to send Roskuld flying, he does hope he will be able to unbalance her.

His lips peel and he lunges his head forwards, seeking to bite the mare hard upon the left side of her neck just where it joins her head. There's nothing better than a good hard nip to really get the fight started, and even if he happens to lose this battle, he wants to make a good account of himself. The little General would probably rage her petite blue backside off if he pulled his punches, so his attacks are made with a formidable amount of force in an attempt to show her what he's got.

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1/3 - 712 words

@Roskuld

THE ARMS OF THE OCEAN DELIVERED ME