sweating bullets | TAKEOVER

[SICARION]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify;"]He barely knew Winterwolf, but when the muscled lion came to stand at his side, in his blind-spot, Floris didn't mind it as much as he had with people he'd known longer. It was just that mutual acknowledgment of the blood and grit they both dragged themselves through, the immediate understanding between two soldiers, so Winter covered his weak side, and Floris- it was more or less his move, his call whether or not they wasted breath on the arrogant squishy. See, he did consider turning around and leaving. This wasn't his fight. He couldn't be certain if he was even staying here, but then the civic duty in him drilled into his head from birth piped up, and his temper flared as soon as that dismissive little lizard leapt off the lion's tongue. The dragon found nothing more appealing at the moment than ripping it out.

Funny that he thought Floris was standing here for Atbash.

"Deflating's too slow," the dragon answered Winter, calm by all appearances, but if anyone here could understand the subharmonics of his flanging voice -probably not- they'd recognize the strain, the warning. It was only a moment before Floris shot forward, aiming to slam the hard-plated wall of his face against the lion's, and regardless of whether he dodged, he attempted to duck and plant his hardened shoulder into Stryker's throat. The growl reverberating in his chest vibrated across several layers of frequencies, mandibles slightly flared.