The thoroughbred was wrong, now. The stallion, Roland, was wrong because Archibald was in the meadow, towering over the creatures present. Archibald was here, and the cry for battle rang through his ears, and he was answering it. Archibald moved through the meadow like a mammoth wraith, Loretta gone off on a hunt and Archibald here to feel close to something in the absence of his family. His dethroning had left him angry with almost everything, and as a result it seemed his brothers thoroughly avoided him. His mother, on her own accord, was missing entirely from his life. From the downfall of Anarore, the mare seemed to be growing dreadfully skilled in the habit of disappearance and reappearance. To him, it was quite annoying; however, without her he was the one making family decisions, such as a patriarch, and something inside of him enjoyed that and wished for Mandrake not to return in full.

Closing the distance between them, from the right side of Roland, Archibald moved his eyes quickly to scan over the long-legged brute. Speed, something Archibald was oh so used to sacrificing, would be on Roland’s side today. The unicorn before him was built very similarly to Lev Fence and Svetlana—tall, lithe, but still powerful. Archibald snorted, knowing he was well equipped for this battle, even if he was slower in comparison to his counterpart. Pinning his ears against his head, Archibald tucked his chin and arched his neck, muscles bulging on both sides of his neck, one marred by the fire of a dragon, the other untouched by mystical ability. “If it is a challenge you seek, fight me!” Archibald called out, still lengths away from the stallion. Archibald slowed his walk, balancing his weight backwards onto his haunches to prepare himself for the stallion’s first attack. Today, Archibald was not the challenger, and he would not be attacking first.

The air was thin on top of the mountain, close to the Gods. Archibald breathed slowly, the warmth from the sun trickling across his hide like liquid gold. The wind was calm, as if clinging to the clouds above, and did not buffet his thick and coarse mane. Making a note to keep his breathing in check, for he knew becoming short of breath could be dangerous in this altitude, Archibald let his hooves lift off the ground in precise, stiff movements that made him appear to be prancing, though he advanced forward towards the stranger at a slow pace.

[WC: 416 | 0/2 | BBs: Swift and Bulk | Archibald approaches slowly from the right side of Roland with his defenses set.]