It was a morning destinied to be spattered in gore. Firstly, the sky was red, crimson streaked over rusted orange, yellow spilling into the lightening night sky, sudden and abrupt. Stars were fading swift under the aggressive sun, the sun coming racing up as quick as it could, glowing softly with its impatience, silhouetting the tundra is fine aureate, ruby lines; thick lines, thin delicate ones, the wove around each detail, no matter how small. Ice, glacial ice and snow that remained sullen year-round, was soft and thick under the feet, hard-packed. When the sun reached its peak and began to melt it with its warm smile, it would soften suitably to wet, sticky white powder, nearing slush in some parts. Yet for now it remained a thick, slightly icy sheet over granite and stone. The sea, roughly twelve meters away, slapped against the ice-slick, dangerously slippery bank leading down to it, more a slide than a bank really.

On this land of blood-red and alabaster, there was a black shape. Brawny, broad-chested, slightly grizzled around the muzzle and face, with a prominent fuzz coating him even in the heat of summer, it was clear he was a fighter. His horn, wickedly sharpened to a needle point, before thickening to a broad, stout base, glittered maliciously in the frosty red lighting. It gleamed with red runes and carvings along it, fading to an obliterating black at the head, and the crimson coming back in the stallion's cold, uncaring eyes.

Treand flared his nostrils, shifting his weight in preparation, muscles tight and heavy. The Basin was well enough, with it's unicorns, even if somewhat disappointing with its act of keeping slaves- how one could bother the upkeep was lost to him. The only thing good for horses, and pegasi, was death. Death to them all; and let their corpses rot in the hottest levels of hell. The sturdily built stallion lowered his head, horn brushing the ground, legs impatient. He was hungry for a fight, to eradicate more of the be-damned unequals, those of blood corrupted, equines and other bitter animals of non-unicorn blood. Treand wanted to purge them from this world, wipe them off the face of it, shred them, murder them, stick them through with his horn and gut them, leaving them to bleed a long death. Here, apparantly, they roamed free, due to lax attention of the leader, whoever she was, of the Basin. That was why females should not lead. They knew nothing about the direct approach.

Treand inhaled, and exhaled; and bellowed, "Fight me!"

[800 word max, 4 posts and closing defense, magic allowed!]