Overture Downs make your peace

How frantic one might be, if they were anyone but the reaper’s son, who gazes upon the wounded mix. A smile curves across Ghost’s slender muzzle. An eyebrow quirks on the Wayfarer’s.

“Fight me.”

Not a barked command; not a challenge. The tone holds something else, as if the suggestion is for this elusive ‘fun’ many speak of. Dark ears swish forward, head tilting right and then to the left.

It clicks. A bulb lights above him, charging a spark that courses through his veins. Adrenaline pumps, muscles itching to flex.

Twisting across his dark muzzle lays a grin of his own, macabre, gruesome. Far from a pretty sight as it curves irregularly across untested muscles—as if he’s never been taught to smile proper.

He takes a step forward, and then another, picking up momentum akin to a freight plowing over a hill—steady yet picking up enough speed to be fearsome. Each step he lengths his stride, stretching thick limbs—the stretch of still healing wounds stinging along his bulk.

There is no need to play feints, nor to attack robotically like a good little soldier. Barbaric best describes him.

He goes to Ghost’s left, attempting to slam into him—bowl him over—while jaws unhinge and teeth go for the scruff.