EVERYONE

[Aditi]

Aditi

i'm contagious, it'd be safest if you ran

Prove it.

There's a finality to the command, a sort of gravity in the way it slips from his mouth (effortlessly) that keeps Aditi from asking right now? Her drab brown eyes regard his crimson eyes briefly to contemplate whether or not she should suggest the potential to utilize the half-witted boy who would dare stand in his way. Ultimately, Gryffen turns his head to announce Sylva's changing-of-the-guard and she turns calmly to complete what she had been instructed to do, as if he had asked her to simply go for a walk or greet an intruder. Her ears nestle themselves into the poll of her thick neck and her muscles tighten beneath a dappled coat in anticipation as her dark gaze rests upon the young paint.

Aditi's expression remains neutral and calculating, her pinned ears and fluttering nostrils the only indications of the adrenaline surging through her. A jet black pony invades the scene, disrupting Aditi's concentration and the clear path she'd had to the gangly-legged colt. He places himself directly in front of the white Wraith, spewing about an alliance before turning to stake claim on her kill, her right of passage. She reaches quickly and powerfully for the jet black stallion with her dulled teeth, striking like a snake near his frame to warn him away from the colt as he slobbers, grotesque and unappealing, upon his own lips. "Get your own," she spits, hardened eyes observing the way he rounds the quivering boy.

Finally the stallion steps back, but they are suddenly joined by more and more, and Aditi is jostled further from the painted boy whose quavering voice still echoes like music in her head. The lucky little suckling is joined by his father who tries to usher him away, but Aditi retreats swiftly so that she can circumnavigate the entirety of the circle as a shaky-voiced brindle throws her hat into the ring. Her dark eyes flick to the red roan briefly, to the wolf that erupts from the forest, to Gryffen's right-hand wolf as she cries war (you fool!) and lunges forward at the prone mare.

The collision is loud, vicious... distracting. She allows them a wide berth and slinks in front of the painted boy and his silver sire before squaring her stance and allowing a slow, slow smirk to find its way across her mouth. "Sorry, daddy," she says to the stallion coldly, "but I'll be taking the little one today." And she lunges without prelude, her heavily pregnant frame closing the gap between herself and the lamb in an attempt to trample him with powerful strides and a whole bunch of pregnant momentum.