The world as an outcast was just as he remembered it being. It had been quite a long time since Archibald lived in the wilds, before he was Captain of the World's Edge, before he was King of the World's Edge, before he was Czar of the Hidden Falls...it had been years now. His body returned to the life of a vagabond with ease, and his muscles seemed to release a deep sigh. Ah, yes, this is familiar his body seemed to say, and he relaxed into this position without crown.
But if anyone knew Archibald, as many did for living as a legend in Helovia for so long, they knew the Dauntless would never truly be without crown.
The stallion was a warlord, having led several battles in these lands. He was not one to stand on defeat, and never would be. Even as an outcast, as a vagabond, his body was finely tuned for the art of war. Bloodshed was his first nature, and that would never die within him: Archibald would always be the king of warfare. He stood now on his chosen battlefield where, only recently, he had chased off a cowardly stallion who refused to engage with him. The lack of a combatant to face him left the stallion in want. He had practiced with Ktulu the day before, as they often do, but his partner with not be a suitable opponent for the twisting, ringing feeling he held in his gut.
Here he stood, golden eyes moving across the misty field, waiting for an opponent.
[PC: 0/3 | WC: 261 | Setting: Setting: Clear spot of the Thistle Meadow, near the deep forest. Grassy, even terrain. Early morning, just before dawn with light fog.]
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