Despite the term that runs along their skin like a brand, distinguishing them as Throat denizens through scent and passing familiarity, Cera holds no real knowledge or regard for this fellow. All his previous battles had been against souls he had known, aside Misael. There is no way for Cera to determine Caneo’s tactics, his personality. Whether he is sadistic or fair, playful or cruel. He may hold no regard for their fellowship forged by the Throat, and not hold back because of that. There are so many variables that Cera cannot account for, and surely Ilaria – if she were accompanying him – would have quite a lot to say about him still charging into battle against the silver stud. As it is, Cera can only feel the pounding of his heart and hooves, the static adrenaline the heat of the season imbues him with. He will overcome his deeply set issues with fighting, with sparring. Even if he has to throw himself headlong into each battle, as he does charging down the beach at the glimmer of pale skin coating his opponent.
 
Whatever the boy said was a blur in Cera’s pounding ears. He has never fought with his armor before, and it does slow him, though his hooves still know the easy give and catch of the sand beneath his hooves. Even if the sand of the Blue is not quite the same as the sand of the Throat. Whatever mockery dripped from the stallion’s lips was unheard, Cera’s mind already flicking to its next attack as his opponent stepped deftly away. While his armor was beneficial in blinding Caneo, Cera was not impervious to its gleam. It strikes across his vision, and he planted his hooves hard into the sand reactively, knowing his opponent would not give him time to adjust his stance and unwilling to be caught unaware. Instinctively the Prince continually kept his wings from the fray, arching them high despite the strain in his shoulders. I cannot be flightless. Not again. Misael’s devastatingly cruel blows had not been forgotten, making Cera paranoid and vengeful, and it is all that saves him.
 
Apparently all flightless Throat denizens are bitter and cruel enough to try and break the wings of their fellow brethren.
 
The sharp burst of light from where he tried to keep Caneo’s movements in his peripherals momentarily blinded him, and the stunning blow that landed hard on the very edge of his left scapula was so unexpected that a cry died in his strained throat. Even here there is pride, it seems.
 
There was no formal thought that clicked in his brain, as often happened to Cera when he charged into battle. He reacted instinctively to the pain he had been dealt, lashing out his own long, long legs blindly towards where Caneo had been with a rumble of primordial, hateful anger in his throat. Perhaps he would catch Caneo’s hind hock, impair his movement in equivalent exchange. Or maybe a rib or flank if the fellow had not had the sense to strike and run. Whatever pain the Prince’s opponent was dealt would not inspire guilt in the Golden. Whoever dared to take his wings from him again deserved every bit of suffering they received in return.
 
Cera quickly returned his hindquarters to the earth with that vow, his left shoulder screaming at the extra weight he had applied to it for the maneuver. There is no fracture, but the bone is bruised, swelling beneath the onslaught of attack even with the boy’s relatively lithe, pathetic stance. Lucky blow, Cera hissed angrily in his head, shifting his weight quickly to his hind end as he spun agilely to the left, determined not to let the stallion get away. If the pale fellow had not landed directly on the edge of his bone, Cera’s movement would not have been impaired. But his hind end, powerful Saddlebred blood humming in his veins, had not been forfeit. Cera lunged forward towards the other stallion, teeth brattily seeking the crest of the leonine tail settled between Caneo’s shapely rump. He wished the brute had hair there to pull and yank, sour and bratty with the petty cruelty of his fellow members. His own failures. If he had to yank Caneo to the earth by his ass, so be it.
 
 

---

Words: {722/800}
Attack: {2/3}

Notes: Brit sucks at past tense battle writing, why did I do this to myself