He strikes out at the black and gold with conviction, but with little expectation of actually causing harm to his much stouter rival, so it comes as a surprise to the old man when his cracked, dried out hooves land square in the other stallion’s right flank, eliciting a satisfyingly hollow whap of keratin meeting flesh and an unexpected shriek of astonishment in reply. At first he assumes the wounded, high pitched sound is just more evidence of his opponent’s delicate idiocy, but what little he sees of the challenger’s face as he lunges past is determined, impassioned, not taken aback.

Confused but intrigued, the elder scrambles in jerky, disorganized steps to try to pivot and follow his opponent’s movement, but his bearded head lifts and swivels independently of his body as he turns, seeking out the source of the piteous noise.

He knows, even inexperienced as he is in front line battle, that diverting his attention at this particular moment, with an enemy so close that they could share the same air with each breath, is a genuinely stupid thing to do, but he also knows that the skirmish is no contest by any means and that a close quarters exchange will undoubtedly leave him irreversibly crippled and the other relatively unharmed. He needs every advantage he can get, even if it comes with bone shattering consequences.

For his distraction he takes the savage cow kick at the point of his left shoulder, where bone is only thinly covered by skin and hair. The pain is sharp and the impact splits his hide over the swell of his humerus where it juts forward of the sternum to connect to his sloping shoulder blade. An agonized half grunt, half whine slips through the crooked spaces of his yellowing teeth, but when his emerald eyes sweep back to the younger stallion’s face they gleam with a newfound maliciousness despite the nausea of skeletal damage roiling in his stomach.

The other stallion gathers himself and the elder lurches backward instinctively, escaping this second and more powerful kick by a mere hairs width. “Your body’s not so fragile as your feelings,” he admits, the words low and cold in his throat, “But how about your young friend there?” A wicked sneer of satisfaction spreads across his salt and pepper muzzle, anticipating the impact of his words even before they’ve left his mouth. He doesn’t wait for the younger stallion’s reaction, but lunges to his right, onto his uninjured shoulder and past the other's left as if in pursuit of the wide eyed deer-like companion hovering fretfully at the far edge of the meadow.

He knows he won’t reach the fawn before his opponent follows and overtakes him, but the companion isn’t his true target. He opens his stride as best he can, mentally begging his battered ass end to support him just for this one moment so that the enemy will buy his bluff and come careening after. He doesn’t have time to glance behind and verify positions, but he doesn’t have the energy or strength to continue running either, so he brakes hard, dropping his weight onto his front legs and swinging his already gun-shy hindquarters around behind him in an attempt to halt and face his opponent.

Squeezing his eyes shut and offering a silent prayer for no broken vertebrae, he drops his head low to the ground, nearly brushing his muzzle across the vibrant Birdsong grass, tilts his poll forward, and braces himself.

He hopes the immature appearance of the fawn truly denotes a newly formed bond. He hopes the tenderness of such a relationship is compelling enough for his needs. He hopes the black and gold stallion is gullible enough to fall for his ploy, and he hopes beyond all hope that the piss spattered idiot will impale himself clear through the lungs and all the way back to the heart by his own frenzied momentum on the twin horns jutting thick and secure from old stallion's skull.

He hadn't entered the conversation, the chase, or even the battle with a desire to murder, but he's already hurting at both ends and just about spent in the middle. His meager strength is rapidly failing and he's beginning to think that drastic measures are the only way he'll ever leave this place intact. The boy may think it only rough play, the stakes being frivolous pride and imagined honor, but he's not likely to die from a well-placed kick or shatter a joint just trying to move himself. He knows nothing of age, of wear, of weakness, or the desperation they create.



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Damage: Takes Rikyn’s cow kick to the point of his left shoulder, cutting open the skin and causing a hair-line fracture to the head of his humerus bone that will take a considerable amount of time to heal and stop aching incessantly. Localized swelling and bruising surrounds the wound.

Attack: Lunges past Rikyn's left side towards Duir, then swings around to face him and drops his head low in an attempt to trick Rikyn into charging into his horns.