There was something about the way in which one's heart beat quickened when the likelihood of blood loss drew nearer, it caused all of his senses to fire at once. The orange eyes that were encased within his chiselled skull rolled to focus upon the unicorn, his ears slanted so that her words were muffled (though he still heard them). He aimed to block out all other distractions, to maximise his senses that would aid him here, to ready his body that was battle hardened.

This assassin was young still, he could see it in the way she held herself, the way wrinkles did not form around her eyes or her maw. His façade was wrinkled, yes, but each delicate fold held a lesson, a memory, a tale of triumph or misery, and always by the side of his brother. He was alone now, but that would not hinder him - how many countless hours had he spent sparring against his brother? Testing new moves against each other, forever changing the location, the time of day, forever setting new challenges against each other.

Ignita had a lifetime of practise. So did Madyrn. And his lifetime was quadruple hers. And he had a built in sparring partner in his twin. It would take more than her advantage of an extra appendage growing from the centre of her charred crown to knock the stallion down.

Laughter, sounding much like the savage growling of a rabid dog, rumbled within the chest of the stallion, as he registered her words, and saw her preparing to move. She was quick on her feet, he would give her that much, but she was predictable. But of course a unicorn would employ her one advantage, the built in sword upon her crown. It was the method which she chose to use it that amused Madyrn so. She declared for all of the Threshold to hear her intentions, wasted time rising upon her haunches to pat the air with her forelegs, before actually charging towards him, horn poised, ready to pierce his flesh.

He was no idle stallion, however, Madyrn was restless even on a quiet day, hyperactive from a life spent constantly on the move, named for the subtle shadows that his mother orchestrated, but behaving far more like the unpredictable and deadly flames that his father was known for. As she rose into her rear, Madyrn shifted his weight, to the right, angling himself so that it was his left shoulder the mare now charged for.

He did not stop there, however, he knew all too well the pain and detriment to his body a stab from a unicorn's horn could do - memories of Deimos washed through his crown - and so he continued to push himself forward now, dropping his crown low so that his chin was at equal level with his knees, taking his head out of the line of metaphorical fire, grunting as he felt the collision of the mare's glass horn scrape along his left shoulder blade. His motion had altered the angle of her original intentions of stabbing him into something that was mostly deflected by the taut, bony portion of his shoulder, but still the horn was driven with enough force that he felt an old scar, where Deimos had left his mark, reopen.

The wound was not nearly as deep or damaging as it had been at the invasion, however, instead it was more of a shallow gash tracking across the skin of his shoulder, one that would ache more later than it did now, one that would remind Madyrn of its presence with every stride he took now in this challenge. The stallion grit his teeth, continuing to push himself forward, to use the powerful hindquarters lent to him by his heritage.

He forced laughter to slip past his lips again, crazy, manic laughter, as he tumbled forward. With his crown still low, he took a large bounding stride away from his original position, and struck out with both hind feet to attempt to make a strike at where the slimmer mare was last seen, hoping to catch her off balance in the wake of her attack against him, hoping to hear the sound of her body falling to the ground as his hooves collided with her head, or her left shoulder , where he could proceed to beat her, never to rise again. Perhaps a root, hidden beneath the dried leaves, would help him - he could always hope.

The motion of bucking tweaked that fresh, bloody injury, and his cranium snapped upwards in reflex to it, eyes rolling about, the whites evident around their edge, attempting to track the motion of this dark horned wench, who would bow to him before the day was out.

[ 800 words.
1/4 attack posts. ]

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