Redsand Canyon down and out over the mount

lets goooo

A demand colors her voice; her assertion is rythmic and persistent and it matches the ebb and flow of his headache. The skeptical look on her face isn't harsh or derisive, but he's tempted to act as if it is. Frustration coils around his heart. It squeezes. It releases.

It would clear the air. He scrabbles at a sense of psuedo-comfort. This poor imitation of closure-- he is tempted by its clean promise.

"Okay."

The word is absurdly clipped and civilized for what's about to follow. He crouches, gripping the sand, lip raised in a perfunctory, soundless snarl. He lunges forward to her left shoulder, but feints at the moment before impact to headbutt her in the chest, his jaw clenched, anticipating the jarring shock of an unstoppable projectile meeting an immovable object.