Sacre didn’t know what kind of challenger he was looking for as he cast around the dewy grass, gaze keenly scouting around him, flanked by one Kitsune and watched by a fox who sat a safer distance away. By mutual agreement, they had decided that the fox-boy would only ever have Ríona accompany him in battle, Inari was small and had no offensive abilities to defend himself with. So it was the two who were imbued with more than just physical strength that took to the fields, the stage for their violent show, hearts pounding in anticipation. It could easily be said that the Doctor was not quite ready for the demonic mountain that roared out from the forest, his loyal dog on his heels, bearing down on the startled healer who wasn’t quite expecting Archibald the Dauntless. “Wait,” he half whispered, half sobbed at the approaching goliath, he wasn’t ready. By the Gods he wasn’t ready at all, not for this kind of challenge, but perhaps today would be the today he learnt how to survive in the face of the impossible.

“Sacre” a duo of foxes cried in unison, their panic filled his mind and he wanted to move, he really wanted to move, to run away from this menace and give in to the shuddering fright that caused his heart to stumble over itself. Yet, he couldn’t even do that, something routed him to the spot, his bones like hard stone, he could move only barely, not enough to escape the fate brought down on him by an angry warlord who looked ready to deal out the fox-boys violent end. Something in his mind pulled him back in time, way back in time, to the moment when he had only been a leggy colt in the embrace of the cold mountain. He felt like a colt again and the memories it stirred were old and mundane, forming a ball of constricting nostalgia in his chest. In the memory, his father was mulching around in a cave, playing with some strange smelling concoction he had made up, a maddening grin slapped across his mouth as he hummed almost whimsically. d’Artagnan had always been just a little bit odd. Somewhere behind him he could hear Roux playing, it was such a childlike happy sound that Sacre couldn’t help but laugh, merrily, briefly unaware of how insane that seemed in his current timeline. 

Then there was pain.

As Archibald’s teeth caught against his withers Sacre let out a grunt, grimacing as his happy memory disappeared, leaving a lingering feeling of disappointment to mingle with the more sudden sharpness of his pain. He still felt like he was just a boy with his heavy bones routing him and if it wasn’t for Ríona, he might have given up all hope there and then, as the Kitsune suddenly sprang forward to the defence of her trapped friend. Sparking to life her electric whips that danced from her four tails, swirling about her as she directed them with a great lash, swooshing them through the air and aiming to slap them against the great chest of the Dauntless before moving after his dog who was snarling at Sacre's side. “Move” she pleaded of her frozen friend, attempting to distract the dog so Sacre, who was still ensnared in the enchantments, might have a chance as Archibald descended upon him again, but this time he managed to move a little. He shifted his body weight slightly onto his right side, tucking away his left shoulder as it glanced against the raging mammoth, even that was enough force to knock him off balance, and he struggled to keep his feet with his heavy bones as he tried to angle his horn so it might have a chance to cut the great beast whilst he was nearby.

Come on, he pleaded to his own demoralised self, looking to grab at any advantage he still might be able to salvage as he reached for his magic, eyes burning with pain and a fired up anger as they sought his great opponent. “Bleed” he spat with a rare showing of irrational spite as he unleashed his magic, hoping it would find its way to the Dauntless, and leech the blood from his body. He might be stuck here, the fox-boy, a colt with heavy stones for bones, but he didn’t need to move a muscle to make his adversaries bleed. 

However, even as the magic left his body, with the aim of finding its target, Sacre couldn’t stop the same feeling of great revulsion that always seemed to come over him whenever he was in a fight. That he could possibly hurt someone, even someone like Archibald, still made him feel disgusted with himself.