Their children will learn to hope for a Caesar.


I admit I get sort of caught up in putting my hooves in the divots.

When I look up, there is a shorter, darker figure on the path ahead of me, his horns twins atop his head. A small part of me exhales in relief, thankful that it’s a unicorn and not some threat to the mountain, but the larger parts of me raise my crown in arrogance, disliking the narrowed expression and tilted crown of the oblique stag. A small snort escapes my nostrils.

I’ve met his sort before. The Basin is full of them.

Zikar-Sin’s moony eyes swim through my thoughts, and a white woman cackles devilishly, a black cross staining her cheek, mother nervous at her side; whoever I’ve decided to track isn’t quite right in his head (but are any of us?). I chase memories away to listen to his words – flavored, with a thick, warm accent that doesn’t match the cold expression lining his features – his name, Mortuus Nox, and a challenge striking the air.

He doesn’t word it as much, but there are little hints that slowly edge my ears back as he says them. Words like, “young hooves,” and “I will even let you start things off.” My nod of consent is violent, my chin almost smacking against the smooth musculature of my chest.

"My name is Rikyn," I rumble, the tenor notes of my voice highlighted with a stark tension, the desire to show him how very entertaining this little whatever the fuck he called me can be, and I am Prince of this mountain, you nobody.

My left shoulder is still marked with a mostly healed scab from my Edge adventure, and so I lead with my right, eager to test the dual strike of the man who dares call me little. I feel like I tower over him as I lunge, though really it’s only a handful of inches that differs in our heights. Sweeping forward through the snow in an explosion of white powder and youth, I of how I’ll have to remember to aim low, having battled comparatively similar or taller opponents as of late, and used to such angles (even Furen, all the way in the Nightwalk, had been larger than me). I try to keep to his right side, my left, the signature flash of my golden horn reaching out in hope to land a strike along his right shoulder.

I continue onwards, down what I hope is the length of him. I attempt to strike two more times, the tip of my blade aimed to draw blood, rather than just smack, if its aim winds up being true. I hope it lacerates the smooth velvet along his back, along his ribs, a smile curling my lips; the absence of pain and the rush of blood in these first few steps of a battle are always so invigorating to me, almost hot and delightful enough to make me forget that he’d insulted me, before he’d even learned who I was.

Almost.

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