The rather shaggy stallion is answered. There is but a rush of wings and rustling feathers, the sound more like the whispering wind than anything, but the wind is not golden or red or cream. For the answering inferior beast is a pegasus, smooth-skulled and eyes a ruby orange, wings painted and striped in a vivid arrays of the red end of the spectrum, slender and tall. Treand has not seen a pegasus ever heavy and bulky in build, so he is not surprised to see this stallion is fine-boned and carefully sculpted. Briefly the soldier wonders as to his name- is it something suitably fitting to his ugly yellow coat? Or is it, maybe, rediculously cheesy, such as Firebreather or Starcoat or Pinkwing, like the many absolutely retarded names he has heard before for the featherbrain air-head winged horses.

Treand tenses, dropping his head and tucking it neatly, protecting his throat, horn glistening in the bleeding red light. The pegasus' feints and snake-like movements, while disorienting, will not come of anything. He must pay attention to the pegasus' eyes, for they often slip up and betray the horse's aim. Perhaps he missed it- but suddenly the golden-boy is rushing toward his right flank, lips peeling back to nip at the broad, heavy muscle of the soldier's neck. In response, the heavier stallion skitters towards him, hooves slipping slightly on the ice. The opposer will likely have advantage in speed, but a heavier weight will provide more bulky muscle and strength, as well as a more solid grip on the slippery hard-pack.

Treand ducks his head and twists it to the left, avoiding spearing the stallion- and swings his hindquarters towards the stallion, legs flashing out in quick succession to what he hopes would be the hind legs of the stallion, but the pale gold-red lighting blurs the golden pegasus. The stallion does not take the bite to his neck, and when he finds Azzaron beside him, rearing up, his ears pin and he braces his shoulder, going barreling towards Azzaron's exposed stomach, his right flank and shoulder taking what would be most of the weight should the attempt to knock him off balance go through. As he aims, hooves come to scrape along his shoulder, mildly painful but nothing more than bruising.

At mention of Delinne, Treand's ears lock against skull, and he dances away, baring his teeth fiendishly. "My daughter? Where is she?" Yet as he speaks he charges the retreating stallion, fueled by a red rage that Azzaron dares to mention his abandoning princess, coming towards his golden chest, head lowered and horn ready to take him through the heart, splinter that great beating thing and rip it to shreds. Treand fights down a fury that will make him more reckless, grunting slightly as he charges, ebony hide glistening in the light.