He is not old. He is not the easy target. He is not Zen-Boy.

ARIADNE fears for her life and she is right to do so. The mare, significantly smaller than he and of a much lighter build, holds the advantage of speed and little else. But when he looks into her eyes with his own, blood-flecked orbs, he sees her hesitation. To him she is nothing but a weak young thing, seemingly inexperienced and certainly no threat. His nostrils flare to take in the warm air of a Tallsun morning and the scent of a battle. He sees ARIADNE foolishly galloping towards him; watches the twitching of muscles beneath the leopard spot skin covering her haunches. Even before her jump he is prepared.

There is a sort of spectacular beauty as the thin sunset of his coat catches the pink light of the sunrise in the foothills. He is backlit and powerful in all of his glory, building sound with every one of his motions. The short grasses beneath his hooves catch his feathers as if to pull him back to the earth and remind him of his home with the earth. The warmth of the air is a comfort to his thin coat, but unsettles his mind. His mind which is forever striving for cold and numbness; his heart which longs for a slowing beat and the cold, dark comfort of death. As his poll lifts above the bit, as his balance shifts and his lowered spine, strengthened from years of battle and careful balance, arches to finish the graceful line of his haunches, he lifts. The motion is slow and careful, but the move is polished and clean. As ARIADNE'S jump draws closer, he forces himself powerfully upwards from the earth and pushes through the air between them, quickly closing the gap. In the form of a low rear, Birch makes his defense. Her hooves strike his chest and he feels her crumble away from him like paper. The pain is dull, the bruises thick, but the injury no true hindrance. Her attempts to bite his leaves and trunk are fruitless; in the heat of Tallsun his lifeplant is robust and high-reaching. She would need wings to reach such a height.

With a shift as sudden as he can manage, his leftward turn draws the thick, nearly impenetrable trunk of his lifeplant to strike towards ARIADNE- she was foolish to attempt the jump, he thinks. Standing nearly two hands taller, with the thick form of a draft breed and the fearlessness of one longing for death, she had stood no chance. His branches stand too high above her, his confidence lifts him to heights far above her comprehension. He is certain of his motion, taking pride in his sharp mind and ruthless manner. His thick, sturdy legs, characteristic of his breed, reach out to strike. There is a flinch, a slow blink as the pain of her strike resonates within his chest, and then a flash as the metal of his boot catches the new-morning light. Each foreleg churns the air steadily, striking for her underbelly, reaching forward with a slow and steady force. Should his boot strike, the metal spikes could cut flesh and splatter the silver with that familiar, comfortable hue. Blood is kind to Birch; blood is the harbinger of death. Blood and cold.

The cold comes next. It comes as he withdraws from the attack and watches her own landing on four thin and steady legs. It comes with a low hum rumbling in his throat and a wave of cold wind catching the strands of his mane. From the simplest song any creature of nature has ever uttered, the storm of ice and snow arrives. Each flake is fast and biting, thick and falling frequently. The cold hits his thin coat and leaves him in cool comfort, easing the ache of his bruises and numbing the warrior's senses. Birch's hooves, hitting the green earth and finding comfort in its embrace, are his power- the metal boot his deadly cage. He stands solid a figure of power resting like the most regal of statues. His bloody eyes look through the snow and into the shadow of the low morning light. With careful steps backward from ARIADNE, he distances himself from war and falls into the numbness of his own magic. It takes no more than a change of pitch and a shift of focus, and suddenly the storm bursts outward in all directions with the same intensity. It reaches, as if with tendrils, for the eyes of ARIADNE and LOCKET- the lignea stands in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by snow in the dead of Tallsun. He is serene, he is in control. He fears nothing; least of all the end.

[[ WC: 799 || MU: 1/2 || INJ: Chest bruises || SUM: He lifts himself into a low rear. He takes her forelegs to his chest when she jumps, but is too tall for her to go above him, particularly while he is in the rear. He turns to the left, hoping to strike her with the base of his tree, and kicks at her underbelly with his forehooves. He lowers back to the earth, takes several step backwards. He calls upon his magic and summons a snowstorm. The storm is concentrated and falling fast, cooling the air around Locket and Ariadne and hopefully hindering their vision. || N: none ]]