Desert

The beast never tired of it. The scent of salty sweat, the sticky tang of blood, the suffocating dust that their churning hooves swirled around them. Even the sting of fresh wounds is invigorating to the predator that lurked deep beneath his skin, lending strength to bones that should have long ago sought refuge in sanctuary. He should have settled into his golden years with bliss, knowing that he had finally captured the star fairy and brought her to heel at his side with a crown of thorns and chains upon her brow. He should have been content to watch his herd and children grow until the dark horse of death finally called him home. But the wolf would not give him such an end. His fate was sealed long ago when the beast first whispered into his mind. He was the wolf of the Islands and there would only ever be one end for the likes of him and his bloodline.

His attempt to wound the painted beast is one without much thought aside from desire to inflict pain. Had Solomon not given pause, no doubt Rougaru would have only grazed his target’s hip or even missed altogether. Yellowed teeth scrape across his opponent’s spine, the forward momentum of his body too quick to allow him to latch firmly enough onto the stallion’s bones to do more than bruise. However he at least is rewarded by the agonizing scream that breaks from Solomon’s lips as the Tinuvel king tucks his tail and lunges from the pain of his scraping teeth.

The beast is in control now, its slathering jaws salivating at the prospect of tasting his opponent’s blood. Golden eyes gleam behind the narrowed slits of his emerald gaze. Dark ears remain tight against his muscular crest as the proud stallion follow’s Solomon’s movement with his gaping teeth.

It was a foolish move, a move that had the aging stallion been in any right mindset, would not have likely made. Instead of anticipating his opponent’s next attack, the beast has grown cocky. He sees Solomon’s retreating hip as defeat instead of the false mask it was. He had been solely focused on trying to capture Solomon’s haunches in his jaws that he is almost completely unprepared when the painted stallion’s broad forehead slams upwards into the underside of his jaw. The effect is immediate. At least with his neck curled, the force of the stallion’s upward thrust is not enough to snap the vertebrae in his spine if he had been fully extended, however it is enough to deliver him a debilitating blow. Darkness clouds his vision, causing the old wolf to stumble, his footing lost in the loose, churned soil beneath them. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth, but instead of the blood of his opponent, it is his own. He heaves a gasping breath as his forelegs spread beneath him to keep the beast upright. His injured shoulder throbs, shaking beneath the pressure of his weight. He gives his head a shake, trying to clear his vision. Droplets of crimson blood and saliva spray the earth around him as Rougaru exhales yet another hard snort and turns to search for Solomon, his green eyes blazing with pain and hatred.

Surprise widens his smoldering gaze as the stallion appears, flooding his vision with the same mask of determination he himself wears. He opens his jaws to scream but the sound hangs gargled in his own throat as the ice king’s blunt teeth find purchase in the tender flesh beneath his neck. Adrenaline courses through his veins now as the mahogany stallion lifts himself vainly, his blood splattered forelegs striking blindly for the shoulder and knees of his painted opponent. The attempt is futile but still he struggles, kicking and thrashing until the strength begins to seep from his legs and wobbling, the beast slumps to the earth, shaking, trying his best to drag breath into his lungs from around Solomon’s tight grasp.

For the first time, the stallion and wolf feel fear seeping into the sweat darkened hairs of his spine. For the first time, the wolf retreats if but only for a mere moment. For a moment, the stallion can feel his own mortality, in a single rapid heartbeat. And then it the beast takes charge once more, the rate of his heart slowing as a feral sound gargles deep in his breast. Again his body begins to thrash, spraying them both with sand and debri. Chipped hooves flail as he jerks his head against the earth in a vain attempt to loosen Solomon's grasp on his throat. The wolf would fight until there is nothing left in the old stallion’s bones.

Whether it blood loss or mere complete exhaustion, regardless the thrashing slows in force until the old wolf is left gasping against the earth, his foam flecked barrel rising and falling in steady rhythm but his eyes... his eyes are darkened with pain and defeat that is undeniable. The snarl on his lips bespoke the creature's disgust but even it could give no further lifeforce to the aged stallion.