Battle is like a revelry, she decided, as the knight's blade met her own. It carries the same feeling. The same elation. The same wildness. Bared teeth are merely a different kind of smile.
The knight struck out again, but she was faster, landing a heavy blow to her opponents armor covered torso. There is movement and sweat and grunting and singing. And, after a while, everyone is at least a little far gone. Whether with spirits or bloodlust is a petty detail.
There's really no difference. The battle field is just as worn flat as the summerhouse floor. You meet strangers and friends on both. Strikes and slashes are like dancesteps. The clashing of blades is the strumming of lutes and the racing heart like a thousand drums. The knight staggered back, now with bravado replaced with fear.
The knight was ended thusly, a claw thrusted through her armour piercing her breast and her back. The dragon pulled away shaking the now still knight free of her claw. Battle is a revelry, thought the dragon. We celebrate Life by dancing with Death. And those who dance with Death chance being whisked away in his cold grasp.
Dragons are my favorite. There are no exceptions.