From a mask of scaled ferocity, the king masquerades as but another challenger, sky blues fierce in the slots of the fitted adornment. Inspired by the ghouls of the night, and by Lace’s beautiful draconic armor, Kaj stalks through the plainly lit field with clawed covers upon his hooves, awaiting his opponent’s appearance; a dragon he becomes for the afternoon, the soul of his missing leader granting strength through memory. The gaggle of fighters clamor about, drawing attention only until they are deemed harmless, consumed in their own reckless desires. Why they fight, Kaj doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to know, truly. As he strides through the dewy grasses, eyes sweeping slowly over the unpaired fighters, he can’t withhold a snort of self-deprecating amusement as the bulky tail strapped to the dock of his tail drags pathetically upon the dirt. The sharp tips of the dragon spade tail are useful, but a burden nonetheless, one Kaj doesn’t need with his lack of agility. Crown turns to glare balefully at the burdensome item, peering past the harness that laced pointed spikes down the length of his spine. As he turns back round, there is already a challenger approaching, and bitterness sweeps through him at his inattentiveness. Teeth grit as he instinctively leaps to meet his foe, attempting to consider all aspects of the other stallion in the shortened time span.

He is but a colt, lanky in youth but already sprouted tall enough to challenge Kaj’s considerable height. Slim, built for speed instead of brute force like Kaj. Hesitation slows Kaj’s thundering gait, tail flopping uselessly behind him as clawed hooves dig into the soft soil. Should he truly be fighting such a sprout of a stag? The building feint eradicates all hesitation, solidifying his decision with a cast of wild eyes upon Kaj’s form. No, if the babe wants to fight like a man, then Kaj shall thrust him to the dirt and show him the pain he desired to have the ability to inflict upon others.

Memories of Bronze spring to mind as those same wicked spirals of keratin aim for his wing, blasphemous and dangerous, too serious a weapon for a match such as the one held in the field. Anger swims in his vision, clamping his wing tight to bodice as he had with the dual-daggered foe of his past, curving to the left towards the babe in hopes of closing in. Close combat is his best bet, granting more ability for his mass to be used to his advantage. The feint is successful, and Kaj’s eyes widened beneath the dragon mask, fear bleeding thick and pungent in his blood. His wing! A weapon and weakness in one, the speed of the babe comes into play and Kaj can see in liquidized time the approach of hooves. Kaj’s heart pounded until his head was dizzy, fearing as any bird does the crippling of his wings, the stripping of his freedom. Impact rips him from his head, his turn mostly fruitless, but it spares the bone of his wing from fracture and ultimate death sentence for the babe.

FOOLISH! His head roars, a lion, and all Helovian dialect vanishes in his blind rage as pain sears through his left ribs and the arch of his wing. It hurts, more than Kaj thought possible, and the delicate radius bone fractured beneath the snap of the babe’s hooves, glancing but more than enough to damage such a delicate bone. Fear battles rage as Kaj fights the urge to turn from the pain, his mind a swarm of dizziness and the sense of pervading loss. He wants to strip the babe from his skin, eviscerate him with his own horn. It was an unspoken law that such appendages, horns and wings, were never to be broken or maimed in spars and battles with no involvement of usurpation and dominance. The bellow of pain gapes his jaws, and Kaj used the subtly protruding claws of his hoof covers to whip to the left, half-rearing with wild eyes streaked with pink pain in the crazed whites as he aimed to scrape the claws upon his hooves down the length of the babe’s left lower thigh to hock as his hooves returned to earth. Using the downward momentum, ribs aching with the movement, Kaj aimed his jaws for the empty spaces of spine between the silver rings, wild with pain and the need for revenge. Nobody stole his freedom! Especially not some new weanling with no respect for the chivalry and glory of battle. Kaj would grind him to the earth and bite his nape like a rabid wolf, teach him respect, and snap the dagger from his crown in retribution.