GOD KILLS INDISCRIMINATELY AND SO SHALL WE

He assured himself that she was smarter than she looked and he was one of the few to see it. Smart... obedient... same thing to Vermier. It was smart to obey the Dieudonné. Intelligent, and life-preserving, to indulge his little whims. She withdrew her fangs to look at him, and he smirked back at her. This would be fun. Playing with her. He tensed his haunches and his shoulders, his mane shuffling with the muscles. He was tempted... sorely tempted... to yank as hard as he could, but he felt the weakness tingling through his arm and he didn't want to embarrass himself by giving it his all and failing. No. If he failed, he wanted it to be thus that he could pretend he could have won, if he tried harder.

He clenched his claws into the tattered skin and pulled slightly to the right, just for a second. The grin around his fangs developed darker. And then suddenly he yanked to the left, hoping she would be unprepared for the bait and switch.

+5 Wrestle with another character for fun or sport

There is one particular personality trait that Ursula has learned about this male over the course of the last year. He's predictable, easy to read, a dramatic. Rarely is he without some expression to showcase his scheming, and it's only the hearing who know the smack he talks whenever he begins a performance. But even she, a creature devoid of proper context, sees him as one that enjoys the attention, has been witness to his posturing more than once. So when the corners of his mauve lips quirk upward in his usual self-indulgent manner, her eyes narrow slightly in response, the plume of her tail spasmodically lifting a little before it plops back down against the rock. He's planning something, she can tell.

What she is not privy to, however, is how fragile his ego actually is. And in all ways she is still a feral thing, so as such does not deny herself the simple pleasure associated with allowing her instincts to control her. Ursula does not go easy on him, giving him no grace because of his injuries, her competitiveness just as obvious as it would be if he were in perfect health. Hhen he first pulls, her one-pawed hold tightens on the carcass, figuring he could've at least tried harder than that. But suddenly he's yanking it in the opposite direction, and indeed she isn't expecting it, a quick flurry of movement the only thing that prevents him from removing the impromptu toy from her grasp.

Diverting the course of the carcass by pulling it toward herself, the girl's forelimb tightens to her chest while her hindlimbs scrabble a bit, coaxing her heft forward so that once more her jaws can snake out to anchor her hold on the prize with hard-clamped jaws. Tug of war had always been her favorite as a kid, and it's quite easy to tell even now, a light of excitement in her eyes as they fixate on his face, challenging. The force of his attempt to disarm her slides her fore-end a little sideways, elbows skidding across the stony ground. She's kicked up a bit of dust during their little struggle, and for a moment it seems she'll wait for him to try again. But the impulse to give it her own go quickly overwhelms her, and her nostrils bury into the pig as she gives a sharp, short jerk with her jaws toward herself in an effort to rip it away from the lilac maned male @Vermier.

Barbarian:
+5 - Wrestle with another character for fun or spot

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GOD KILLS INDISCRIMINATELY AND SO SHALL WE

She was always one attuned to violence. It made him wonder whether she was really obedient, or only obeyed orders that followed her predestined whims for bloodshed. Vermier seldom gave non-bloody orders anyway. She was ready, whether she understood or not - prepared with a thump of her tail, and expecting a struggle. What she did not expect was his quick ruse and his lips peeled back around mountainous snowy fangs, laughing like the wind over the peaks. Confusing, natural. Weathered, scarred lips the scenery. All the area was bloodshed.

She veered the target slightly toward herself. He had neither predicted or not predicted this. His haunches, evenly stabilized, were prepared to thrust at any eventuality. He grunted as the change of direction forced his weight to shift forward. His old, scarred front limb took more of the weight. He noted that she was cheating, catching the morsel with her jaws as well. Her expression was inscrutable, feral. Likely she did not know this game had any rules. Well, then, it didn't. He grabbed his side of the carcass with his jaws as well and aimed to yank it back toward him. His grounded front paw shifted, thinking to scrape up some dust at her, but he grunted and whined instead, caught by a shooting pain up the elbow.

@Ursula

+5 Wrestle with another character for fun or sport

Eyes wide, ears pinned, lips peeled and claws extended, she's just a cat playing at game in this moment. There aren't thoughts in her brain- or, not very many, none aside from mine and flesh and exertion. Ursula has forgotten, even, that this carcass is supposed to be a gift, all his for the taking, sustenance. What she doesn't consider, blinded by instinct as she is, is that @Vermier is using her present as he wished, finding sport and enjoyment instead of only a meal. If she ever realizes, which she won't, she'd be proud, having given him a thing to kill two birds with one stone. What more could a lion want than a meal and some entertainment that came to them?

Jaws clenching around her mouthful, she holds fast to the thick skin, the dark claws of her forelimb half-embedded. The scent of blood is in her nose, less fresh now than when she'd taken this thing down but still tantalizing, and it plus the brush of it against her tongue makes her drool. And when he tugs it again, trying to break her grip, the briefest of growls comes out of her. He skids her body again just a bit over the rocks, and she works to get her hind limbs beneath her, seeking more traction against his greater strength.

Creases of frustration sprout in the lines of her forehead; he's stronger than she is, practiced in competition, muscles carefully cultivated for.. as long as he is old, she supposes. But she refuses to give up, spurred by a competitiveness developed by being one of the nine siblings. There's a slight clamor to how she rolls the weight of her hind end up and off of her right hip. She has never been a graceful thing. The toes of her rear paws clench on the dark ground, finding no give in the terrain, no purchase to better ground herself. And so, rather than make another go at removing the warthog from his possession, the woman instead becomes dead-weight, dropping her belly to expand over the flat rock beneath her, tail once again plop, plop, thud-ing against the ground from where it lays straight out behind her.

If she couldn't take it then she'd be sure he couldn't either. Hah!

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GOD KILLS INDISCRIMINATELY AND SO SHALL WE

Food and blood he could get every day, but service and entertainment was far more rare. Though drying leather and coagulating blood filled his tongue, it was her intelligent struggle that had his keen eyes watching, focused not on the prey but on the horizon. (Not that he intended to lose... just that he intended to win in a particularly splendid manner.)

He was king and she was feral, half-tamed brute, and the difference between them was perfectly clear. Himself, magnanimous and clever... and her, dead weight to be overcome. She slipped a growl and he rumbled a chuckle, uninterrupted through his unscarred throat. Poor English and scarred lips might deceive him but this did not. He began to wonder how to end this. Maybe break it in two, or toss it away down the cliffs. Maybe herself with it? No. It would be fun with any other yearling, but he didn't want to waste this one. He growled, miffed that his own fondness was getting in the way of his cruelty, and annoyed that her sudden dead weight was very heavy. It would be easy to strike at her, change the game. Tempting.

He growled again and started to shake his head in frustration, jowls low and blindly clenching, back and forth like he himself was a ragdoll in the hands of an angry child.

@Ursula

Neither willing to submit, to lose, their game (now competition) rages on. The shifting of her weight keeps him from dragging her across the ground again, and she wonders if he'll soon give in and admit defeat. Quickly the lioness learns better than to think this male will forfeit so easily. @Vermier shakes his great skull side-to-side, wrenching her own neck one way only to be jerked back the other way. For a moment it's startling but quickly it becomes wildly uncomfortable, a rattling of her brain and the vertebrae in her neck. She lacks the muscular neck of a man, so even though her weight may have won eventually if left attached, his tactic makes her release her grip within a minute. Prying her jaws open and off of the pig, the lioness wrenches herself up into a seated position. Flexing her jaws, Ursula tilts her neck to display her discomfort, squinted eyes now glaring at the victorious lion. How dare he win even while being so injured.

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GOD KILLS INDISCRIMINATELY AND SO SHALL WE

Rage felt very good, forgetting that she was on the other end of it. Broken bones and ragged carcass and thick blood droplets, almost congealed, pooling like sleet. Annoyed that he could do no more than rage and shake. Annoyed until the resistance stopped and he gave a final growl, weight shifting forward and ears making a quick slant. VICTORY.

He squared his chest and heaved a breath. His insides felt dry. Like his ribs were barbed, catching on the inside. Nonetheless. She had been overpowered, and he watched her jaws work clumsily - reluctantly, he perceived - releasing her hold, accepting submission. He was not quite sure what he had won. He wished she could protest a bit more. But that would make her less unique, no? She could not speak and he could have her say whatever he wanted in his own head.

That would be quite nice - but he could not formulate a firm speech for her before he noticed that she was not acting quite right. Something off. And that tore his attention away. Refocused his orange-red eyes on the slack of her neck. She seemed uncomfortable, like something broken. Vulnerable and resentful.

That made him feel. Something. Probably hunger. More like starvation. His lips peeled back, pained growl-frown. Took a half step, hesitated - the half carcass forgotten, now something to step around - decided to keep his distance, but unable to stop a questing paw from trying to pat her neck. Was OK? Not broken?

@Ursula

Bright against the chocolate and cream alike of her hair, red is speckled alongside her natural browns, splattered from their tussle. Even those tan ears, swept back against her nape, are marked by pig's blood. She'll need a damn bath after this, and a good stretch (and a few trips to the gym before round two) but it definitely feels worth it. Despite the onset of an ache in her neck, Ursula hasn't had this much fun without leaving the pride's land in a while. It takes her back to time spent playing with her family as a child. Well, it would if she wasn't staring down @Vermier instead of a Bezra. He seems no worse for wear, breathing deep where she's panting a little, the mild exertion evident. Damn him.

Competitiveness isn't new to her, but she's still young; the lioness doesn't take to losing very well. She's giving him a solid glare while she gives her neck a crack, trying to work the knots out before they form. It's the fleeting sort of anger, a burst in the moment that fades while the dust settles. Defeat is plain enough to see, and being a spoil-sport might mean that he won't want to play again. That lesson Ursula learned early enough after much trial and error in cubhood. Even as the male half-steps toward her, the scowl is loosening from the huntress's face. An ear, the one on the same side as his questing paw, flicks forward simultaneously, and she goes still when he pats her.

For a moment she just looks at him, trying to read the lines of his face, noticing how he doesn't speak. The concern is easy to understand, and, briefly, surprise touches her mottled features. He cares. Ursula flashes her teeth where he reaches, but it's without the earlier vigor, the ferocity. It's half-hearted. Playful. There comes a snort out of her nose, unladylike, before she pointedly turns her muzzle away from him, neck stretched as though to prove no injury. Showing him her profile, it's hard to miss the distinct tilt of a smirk on her dark lips, and from the corner of her eye she watches him. Waits. She's not fragile, no china in the wake of his raging bull, and she'll have him know it. (She's also still kinda butthurt that he won 'cause competitive but luckily she can't word vomit that part.)

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GOD KILLS INDISCRIMINATELY AND SO SHALL WE

At first brush, her neck felt warm. The skin felt flexible. Usually when he was touching necks it was with his teeth and the neck muscles were scrunched and tight. Odd. Nor was he used to his claws being sheathed in. His ears twitched a sliver back, confused. When he sought her gaze for confirmation he noted that she suddenly felt cold and stiff, with flashing teeth. Not what he expected. He could not see it as anything deeper than hostile. He promptly dropped his paw and then, finding that it still felt out of place, rearranged it in a proper organized manner next to its partner. Haunches shifted, wanting to drape a phantom tail over them both.

She gave a snort of humor and he froze to keep from cringing. She extended her neck out like a scrying cobra. He wondered whether to test her again, now that she wore a smirk. Her manner threatened to snap and that was very tempting. He grinned and leaned forward again, this time with tidy little claws sticking out (though not harmless) and tried to boop her nose.

@Ursula

Has she ever considered him dangerous? Feared him? No. Ursula was uneasy the first day, only the first, then unsure for a time, settling into the sanctuary of the Dieu-claimed Lagoon while their leader made a bit of a name for himself. An unsavory one that she isn't privy too, and now never will be since she hadn't seen a vast majority of it. So she, this tender young lioness with her neck stretched and exposed while he prods her with a paw that has surely sliced dozens, just watches him.

Albeit in a manner as though she is prodigious, chin tilted ever so upward. And from the corner of her eye, believing herself clever, his swiftness to retreat makes her second-guess the impulse. Oops. The movement of his limb making itself comfortable pulls her face back toward him a bit, eyes glancing briefly down, noticing the polishing of himself, presenting. Most of the time she has seen him fighting, or some such debauchery. @Vermier never came across to her as a genteel being.

Catching her off guard, the male's paw (a peek of claws) is suddenly in her view, then against her nose, and her skull lifts away marginally in surprise. And she freezes. Slightly widened eyes try to read his expression, his body, wanting needing to know what game he's playing at. What the intention was. But she can't really see him, eyes unsure which focal point to find, and for some reason she can't make herself pull away. Almost like he has pressed her OFF switch.

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