He’s been to the Steppe often enough since his arrival to Novus, and it’s the same every time: barren, beaten, bruised with spilled blood. Just like him.

Gopher holes mark the ground where he steps, caution shortening his stride until he’s picking his way carefully around every depression and irregularity. Its methodical and calculated; it would seem the feathered stallion is better suited to a profession marked carefully by rules and regulations rather than a plain as ruthless and lawless as the one he wanders to. But time and time again, Bellum is where Aion finds his refuge. Bellum is where he seeks asylum. His daily life is a handbook of strict control for every movement, every thought, every inch of wiggle room—sometimes, he needs to let off some steam by throwing caution to the wind.

The battlefield is particularly empty today—Aion isn’t sure if it’s due the weather or the events happening in the mountains, but nor does he care. The rain never bothered him anymore, and being an exiled king left a bitter taste towards politics in his mouth. He lets the water fall freely onto his alabaster hide, trickles of water beginning to collect and run down his flanks the longer he stands. His eyes close, relishing the feeling.

Until her voice calls out to him, drawling and laughing.

She’s golden and radiant, a small spot of sunshine through the mist. A smile curls at the corners of Aion’s lips, a shot of adrenaline setting fire to his veins. The first of many to come.

His breath is visible in the air when he speaks, frigid and foggy. “Fuck the world indeed,” he agreed, beginning a few slot steps towards her. His movement is still calculated, seeming to test the ground before he trusts it with his weight. "I suppose I don't need to tell you how this place works..." The way she walks, the way she talks: stride so confident and collected, words so coarse and indecent, betraying her innocence. The gold-painted mare is no stranger to conflict.

As he walks, the temperature of the air begins to lower considerably. Frost cracks beneath his hooves, ice creeping upon the blades of dead and dried grasses. He hopes she can feel the chill of winter breathing upon her skin.

Once his energy begins to waver, he lunges.

His care is gone in an instant, all pretense of finding the perfect footing gone as he rushes her. Teeth glow white against his dark muzzle; they reach through the rain, ready to tear flesh from bone. But he doesn’t give them the chance.

Aion skips in his step, switching from one lead to the other and veering his course ever so slightly. He leans into the stride, carrying himself to the left. His shoulder braces, the muscles taught and ready.

Ready to throw her off her own feet and watch Bexley Briar fly—if only for a minute.

The ground is slick, the dust having been wetted down to mud by the dewy rain, but it mercifully holds beneath him. The tentative purchase it gives Aion is only temporary he knows, but he’d be stupid to not take advantage of it.