Don't get too close, it's dark inside

[Scorch]

The Field calls to her at the worst of hours. The stars are already appearing over the Jungle's vast canopy when a twist in the Queen's gut tells her that she will be needed in the Field. Call it instinct, call it fate, call it thirty years of serving the Jungle. Call it what you will, but Scorch obliges. She turns her body (one completely made of tattooed fire) and sprints to the Field. The need to be there increases the nearer she becomes.

Sweat glistens clearly on her hairless fire-skin, made evident by the silver light of the moon. She's arrived on the border of the Field, and just in time, it would seem. The breeding season has come upon them, and some foolish mare has tempted fate. She's a looker - all Arabians are, though Scorch, being a tank, wouldn't really know that - and she's attracted exactly what she probably wasn't looking for. A man.

Snorting and making her presence known, the sixteen hand tall warrior stalks forward until she's beside the gorgeous midnight woman and slightly in front of her, shoulders rolling and ears laid back. It's not surprising that she chooses to stand against the approaches of such scum - she is the leader of a kingdom made solely of women, she's this age's epitome of a woman's right's activist.  But only Lokii might know this.

"He won't do you any harm, miss." She says in her husky voice, the consonants hard, clipped. Razor sharp teeth peek from beneath her lips as she speaks. "I'm Scorch, Queen of the Amazon. You're safe with me, though I don't doubt your ability to protect yourself against men made brainless by the season." Violet dragon eyes turn to meet the Arabian's amber ones, their depths hard but protective. A small nod of solidarity is given, as though a promise has mentally passed from Queen to Newcomer. Then her eyes shift back to Lokii (whom she has met before, and not well) and she sneers, "Though I'm certain that you've kept your brain this season."