in the roses, they will kill me

Like a moth to a flame Rhysand found himself sauntering into the battlefield. Pale green eyes swept across the worn earth. Fighting rings covered the landscape. Some new and some old. He even padded across various pools of dried blood through his venture. The ambiance sent tingles of anticipation slithering down his spine. It'd been nearly half a season since his last spar and it was surely time to began shaving off some of that rust. He was also a touch curious to see that these mutants had to offer.

Rhysand settled with a moderately sized sparring circle, taking his place on one end. He began to stretch out his body, sliding his front legs forwards and allowing his rear to hike upwards. A few small pops could be heard from his spine as he straightened back up and shook out. With a small roll of his shoulders the pale beast tossed his head into the air and called forth anyone willing to throw down.