Spit and Grit

It wasn’t long after a twig snapped before many others followed suit. A creature of beauty and grace, well, Heimdall might consider himself to be so. But it was very clear that in fact was not the case, as the lumbering brute lurched forward and scraped the side of his head and massive horns across the midsection of a tree. The bark tore loose quite easily against his sheer brute force, but for the creature itself he was cheerful as could be, a bubbly gurgle sounding from deep within his depths as shattered wood rained upon the rock hard scales of his head. Crimson from the name to the very hue of his armor, like a beast adorned in ruby with the snowiest of underbellies. Atop his cranium directly between two chillingly blue eyes was the signature heart he’d bore since birth.

The great bubbling beast was not alone, however. From behind his shoulder emerged a slender girl, blonde hair with gently loose strands of hair from braids that framed either side of her face. They wove further around her skull intricately where the rest of her hair was clipped back from her face and shoulders, a pinkness to her cheeks and nose with eyes that were deeply dark save for an almost fiery brown where the light caught their pools. She swatted some of the shards of wood Heimdall had scattered in her blonde hair, peering up at him with a cocked brow and a rare but faint smile.

”You brute.” she told him, as if he didn’t already know. He’d enjoyed being ‘boasted’ in such ways lately, however, and the so called brute gave a tremor as his shoulders shook in the movement of his laughter. Primrose’s gaze slowly slid away, the small smile still on her lips as she allowed him his fun while she looked over the surroundings to admire the greenery. Heimdall busied himself scraping the side of his massive antlers against the tree, the great beam groaning against his massive weight as he snorted into the shoving. Reaching up she gave a swat to the side of his jaw to get his attention, beckoning him over to a small dip in the grass where a bundle of pebbles resided.

”Come on, leave the tree’s alone. You’ve bullied them enough today.” she chastised lightly. The goregutter turned with a powerful snuffle that ruffled the back of her head, golden locks loosening from the clip and she tucked them back behind her ear with a roll of her eyes.

”Yes, yes. You’re very big and strong.” she pointed out. She crouched before the bed of pebbles, patting them with the palm of her hand twice and waving Heimdall over who obediently complied for the promise of smooth pebbles. He ducked his massive skull down, nearly knocking Prim over in his eagerness although she managed to steady herself by grabbing to the side of his smooth horn that was just to the side of her now.

”Table manners, table manners!” she tutted her tongue at him, shaking her head as if in dismay as his slug like tongue slid from his jaws and scooped the pebbles back into his jowls with a flick. Heimdall gave a grunt in response, crunching down on the pebbles noisily with a gurgle. It was nice, allowing Heimdall to be his goofy self amidst this world. Things had been good for them, quiet. Perhaps too quiet. Primrose’s instinctively paranoid mindset often found her dark watchful gaze lingering on the surroundings more often than not.

If he had only been so lucky, the desert devil would have reached his target.

A new, non-reptilian roar pierced the air, followed by the crack of tree bark. Seemingly out of nowhere, a brilliant green figure burst forth from the foliage, azure paws flexed and teeth exposed. Her wings hardly beat -- rather, she allowed herself to glide in on the momentum of her own flying leap. If either dragon or human were to discern the alebrije's expression, the only thing they would see was fierce, motherly concern, as she made a beeline to intercept the Sand Wraith’s attack.

Two moonlight-yellow eyes had observed the calm before the storm. Normally, Pepita avoided spending time in her altered state in the forest; today, she was off the heels of a delivery. Had she not let her innate curiosity towards the red reptile and its companion rule over duty -- hell, had she decided to shift back to her smaller form immediately -- she would not have been in this situation. But this time, there was no need to second guess her decisions. Instinct was taking charge.

The maternal feline's ultimate goal was to bowl the creature over, and pin him down. Though far from a full-fledged fighter, training had proved useful for the spirit guide -- but she had an inkling that the reptile would not be subdued so easily. Gritspear already proved to be more dexterous than her, but Pepita's solid muscle was built to last. If she could get him under her grasp for even a moment, she could buy the pair enough time to get help or go to safety.

Regardless of strength or skill, she had advantage in one special way: no one can kill what is already dead.