Mock Battles

In his Spartan-like upbringing, Chain had been taught to fight, and fight well. From the moment he had stood, tall on matchstick legs, he had been taught to know your opponent, take advantage of their weaknesses, exploit them by all means necessary. This creature, this Black Caesar, was an enigma. He had taken the black gladiator by surprise, his flailing attack and subsequent retreat leaving the Warlander with hardly a moment to think. He had cursed himself for not being at his best, fatigue tickling at the back of his mind, rendering his limbs heavier than they actually were, distorting his senses. Even now, dried blood crusts inside his nostril; bruises are in full bloom, hidden beneath his thick mane and scarred chest.

He had lingered in the shadows of the orange groves, preferring the solitude, while he worked out his next move. The following night, he had set out on the fading trail, refreshed, renewed, ready for more. A smile, one that can only be described as predatory, makes itself known, heavy limbs pulling him across Beqanna once again. Rather than rely on his own thoughts, he settles into the mind of a true predator, relying on his senses to guide him. The trail, though fading, is a distinct one, pulling his sable frame towards the faux battlegrounds.

Once again, he lingers on the edges of the designated territory, circling about in his careful, calculating nature, ensuring that this is where Black has taken his refuge. He rests until the sun has begun to sink beneath the horizon, the songbirds slipping quietly into slumber. Under the dying light of day, he stalks forward, shoulders rolling, a panther on the hunt. The duo-toned zorse has made no effort to hide himself. Chain is careful to keep the wind at his face, keeping his scent from notice as long as possible. His hoofsteps are quiet, but no doubt not quiet enough. Musculature trembles in excitement and he bolts, mouth widening in a silent scream, limbs striking him forward.

Payback is in his mind, and he lunges at the other male, teeth bared, skull snapping back and forth, like a chicken at feed, mouth settling wherever it can grasp. Forelimbs strike out in a half-rear, hooves seeking purchase on flesh. Drawing back, chest heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and the excitement of the chase, he eyes his rival. He cannot help but admire the tenacity of the pirate, having only ever seen it in one other animal before. Himself. A low chuckle, raspy in tone, trembles from the depths of his chest. I will not stop, dear pirate. It is only a matter of time …