In the dusk, his chosen opponent is but a gleam of bronze and musculature, his hound only visible by the moonlight that exuded from midnight fur. They’re silent as they regard each other, Kaj awaiting a decision on Ulrik’s behalf. Names are meaningless on the battleground. Yet in an era of peace, they cannot afford for words to be eradicated. A rumble of vocals coils like smoke across the clearing, filling the space between the two massive stallions as the stag seeks information. “Indeed.” It’s all that’s necessary, for his rank holds no meaning to Kaj on these chilled sands of glory. It won’t give him any advantage. All he desires is the clench of muscle and burn of pain, to eradicate those thoughts completely until he’s but a honed machine once more. It’s sure to be awarded to him when, in the silence of the darkness, his silent prompt is taken in hand and agreed upon. The dissolving seconds between cessation of words and commencement of attack are brief at best, and Kaj is momentarily surprised, heart leaping at the instinctive fear of lunging daggers. Regardless of the distance between those sickly points and his chest, the adrenaline feeds into his own movement. A memory of Maskan’s brutality, of the ache inspired by his own immobility when the brute had deigned to smash into him, is a sunburst in his mind. Stillness was not an option; the king wouldn’t allow such a blow like the one his mentor had delivered.

A grunt of exertion passed pale lips, clouding in gossamer obstructions of his vision as thick Percheron hindquarters kicked into gear, launching him in the direction of his opponent’s last standing in hopes of meeting Ulrik halfway. Kaj doesn’t have Ulrik’s speed, but he sure as hell can try. An unwitting snarl curls his face in a hideous manner. Private rage is directed at the bronze beast; anger over himself, the world, his helplessness as a military son in a peace herd. His fury is unfounded, directionless, broad. Until Ulrik - the perfect distraction.

The downward curve of pointed horns causes fear to splinter into fractals, invading his anger and absentmindedness like a virus. Thoughtlessly, having never dueled a unicorn aside Tonka (though the child-stealing bastard was hardly a worthy foe to consider, truthfully), Kaj jerked his forelegs up on the next stride, shying to the right as he curved his ankles to poise thick, hardy hooves towards those dangerous weapons. A brief scream of uncertainty, of shame, wells in his chest. What if he broke one? He assumes it’s the same as breaking a wing; devastating. He’s ashamed of his lack of experience with Ulrik’s breed if only for that heart-stopping possibility, but his punishment comes swiftly as blunted teeth scrape and bruise across his left knee, knocking hard.

Shame is swept away in the wake of the pain, his ears buzzing. It tears into him, a poison, as it trails fire up and down his leg. Mockingly, dual horns graze just past the skin of his lower left forearm, harmless. Kaj bitterly wishes he really had broken them for a moment. The instinct to slam his left wing forward is obeyed, hesitation crippling once he realizes those same horns can tear into the delicate feathers. Regardless, the sweep of his shoulder is already in motion, and so Kaj resentfully hopes he at least blinds or disorients his opponent should his face be where Kaj assumes it to be heading. As gravity pulls him back down from his half-rear, Kaj feels his neck halt on his pending attack. Glass is warm against his skin, a reminder of what he’s attempting to evade, of Kahlua and the Edge and all the mistakes he’s ever made. As it restricts his movement, he cannot help but feel that same fury, that helplessness. Maw opened wide, teeth gleaming in the dying light as, without the same range of motion in his neck as Ulrik, Kaj allowed the force of his downfall to put the power beneath his attempted attack. He aimed for the meat of Ulrik’s left shoulder, the bronze marking his guide in the dark that hid his opponent so flawlessly in comparison to Kaj’s color. Kaj can’t hurt his family; those holders of faked smiles and sickly sweet words. But he can hurt this clueless, innocent bastard. He’s nearly salivating for the taste of flesh on his tongue, preparing his left shoulder for the maneuvering he’d have to pull off. If Ulrik continued in a forward movement, Kaj would have to rip his wing to his side away from the horns, and simultaneously fold them close enough to handle the ramming of their shoulders potentially meeting with bruising force. If Kaj could focus on that alone…maybe he could forget everything else.