07-16-2015, 09:00 AM
<center>
<div style="background-color:#F7FCCD; color:#770239; padding-top:10px;padding-right:10px;padding-left:10px;padding-bottom:10px;width:450px;">
<center><img src="http://i797.photobucket.com/albums/yy258/tbiter/Mobile%20Uploads/3116bc29b61ee5bc13b296bec928367f-1_zpslcvpvw6k.jpg"; padding:5px;5px;5px;5px;"></img></center>
<p><p align="left">It is the only way Killgore knew. The way of tooth and hoof. In her mind it was the only way to settle this dispute, and continue on settling disputes, no matter how many arose. She could not stand idly, would not calm the rage she so justifiably felt. The words of the other are too soon, the wounds entirely too fresh. They cut deep like verbal knives, the bays rage fueled by mother's grief. A grief that consumes her, she can see nothing else, this is a crime of passion.
<font color="#C41852"><b>"Take it back, you wretched cow!"</b></font>she growls, a gutteral noise rising from the pit of her stomach. She is met by the buckskin, they catch each other in an embrace. Killgore's teeth find a mark gliding against the others pale pelt, the success is confirmed as the twang of metallic warmth touches her tongue. A small bit of justice for the elders sharp vocals, though painful the wound is not life threatening. She disturbs the sand, daggers scraping at the earth, nares flared to release the grunt of her breath.
She should have dodged quicker, the older mares hooves flailing, Killgore moves to the left too late. Branka's onyx find her side, raking their way down her darkened pelt, her teeth jar from the hit. She bellows, having misjudged the others agility, the damage just below her shoulder and curving down her barrel. Though shallow, the mark draws blood, leaving Killgore's side aching. Her orbs narrow, if only looks could kill, she would glady snuff out the life of this old maid. Branka moves again, and Killgore meets her, matching her steps. She turns her stride diagonally, back end hauling upward and out, back legs thrusting. Her kick misses, the target moving out of range before they can touch, and ong legs find the earth once more. She takes a stance once more, sides expanding from this cardio, eyes alert for the next assault.</p>
<center><img src="http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLjc1MjkzYy5TMmxzYkdkdmNtVSwuMA,,/pink-bazooka.regular.png"></center>
</div>
</center>
<div style="background-color:#F7FCCD; color:#770239; padding-top:10px;padding-right:10px;padding-left:10px;padding-bottom:10px;width:450px;">
<center><img src="http://i797.photobucket.com/albums/yy258/tbiter/Mobile%20Uploads/3116bc29b61ee5bc13b296bec928367f-1_zpslcvpvw6k.jpg"; padding:5px;5px;5px;5px;"></img></center>
<p><p align="left">It is the only way Killgore knew. The way of tooth and hoof. In her mind it was the only way to settle this dispute, and continue on settling disputes, no matter how many arose. She could not stand idly, would not calm the rage she so justifiably felt. The words of the other are too soon, the wounds entirely too fresh. They cut deep like verbal knives, the bays rage fueled by mother's grief. A grief that consumes her, she can see nothing else, this is a crime of passion.
<font color="#C41852"><b>"Take it back, you wretched cow!"</b></font>she growls, a gutteral noise rising from the pit of her stomach. She is met by the buckskin, they catch each other in an embrace. Killgore's teeth find a mark gliding against the others pale pelt, the success is confirmed as the twang of metallic warmth touches her tongue. A small bit of justice for the elders sharp vocals, though painful the wound is not life threatening. She disturbs the sand, daggers scraping at the earth, nares flared to release the grunt of her breath.
She should have dodged quicker, the older mares hooves flailing, Killgore moves to the left too late. Branka's onyx find her side, raking their way down her darkened pelt, her teeth jar from the hit. She bellows, having misjudged the others agility, the damage just below her shoulder and curving down her barrel. Though shallow, the mark draws blood, leaving Killgore's side aching. Her orbs narrow, if only looks could kill, she would glady snuff out the life of this old maid. Branka moves again, and Killgore meets her, matching her steps. She turns her stride diagonally, back end hauling upward and out, back legs thrusting. Her kick misses, the target moving out of range before they can touch, and ong legs find the earth once more. She takes a stance once more, sides expanding from this cardio, eyes alert for the next assault.</p>
<center><img src="http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLjc1MjkzYy5TMmxzYkdkdmNtVSwuMA,,/pink-bazooka.regular.png"></center>
</div>
</center>
![[Image: ca94dsg_by_calltherp-dcioghd.gif]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/a2aa/f/2018/211/1/8/ca94dsg_by_calltherp-dcioghd.gif)
SLOW-WORDER CLUB