The Commander is unafraid. Tigers may roar, strangers may threaten, but he is unafraid. He listens apathetically as his fellow members of the Grey file in behind him. He is not alone, let the trespassers know this.

The challenge isn't long in coming and Knox is prepared. Like a shuffling of aces, Cem's figure falls away to reveal Knox's own much younger mask. The shift to a smaller form, though still one taller than Faelon, causes the fox to fall to the earth, where Manhattan's hungry jaws greet it to drag it away from the newly indicated battlefield. To Knox, it is a battle to prove himself to his herdmates and his damned captive. Let this fight be her lesson, an example of what could have been her own fate.

Perhaps sensing the importance of the challenge, his bridle begins to glow slightly. Knox watches with a lifted gaze and a stoic expression as Faelon prattles on. The fool of a stallion will learn his mistake soon enough. He is surely an imbecile, to think that he knows the borders of this land better than one who grew up in it. "Very well, fight for her freedom. But know that if you lose, you will share her fate," Knox stipulates, his own teeth gritting with anticipation of the fight to come.

He will say no more. Knox feels the burning impatience, sees himself reflected in his mind's own eye, and knows that to delay is to give Faelon the advantage of time. Manhattan urges him onwards from where she stands, hiding her prize.

Win, she says.

Yes, he thinks. Win. He must win this for the sake of his herd and his role within it. And so, springing forth from his own eyes, the silver smoke of his magic is let loose. In an instant it reaches out to try and find Faelon's eyes and cover the challenging trespasser's vision in black. Knox knows full well the instantaneous effects of his blinding magic, but he cannot afford to maintain it for long. Hopefully, the precious seconds will be enough.

With long, measured strides, Knox springs forward to take advantage of the window afforded to him by his magic. The cold wind stirs him as he gallops forth to quickly bridge the gap between the white senior and the black colt. Knox's aim is careful, his movement precise as his mind. His body shifts to the right of Faelon, yet leans left as he aims to ram Faelon's left foreshoulder with his own. Young as he may be, he knows his own strength. Knox may be slightly less agile than the andalusian, but his strength is not to be doubted.

He does not stop; the confidence instilled in him by his herdmates and companion is infectious. His body curves slightly outwards, pulling him to the right as he passes where Faelon's bulk would rest, should his magic have stunned him as hoped, and prepares his next attack. His mind focuses on each movement, and he waits with care to shift his balance and then strike. His hind legs coil and then spring, striking out with incredible force in a full extended buck. He has the power to take the stallion down, he tells himself. He can bring him down to strike the soil, press his mouth into a pool of his own blood, and make him understand him the consequences for his mistakes.

He aims clear and true, hoping to strike at Faelon's right gaskin. Suppurt lies in thuh lug, sounds his father in his mind. Roanne is ever his mentor; Even from where he stands in his shadow, Knox does not think he will ever stop learning from the Sentinel.

His legs strike the cold, firm earth of his homeland in the frost-bitten season of Orangemoon, and in a trail of dust, Knox turns back to face the way from which he has come in a clean, one hundred and eighty degree turn to the right. His movements are thundering, each one powerful in its own right, and his blue eyes steel with confident concentration. Attempting to maneuver parallel to Faelon, he pushes closer to the stallion's left flank. Whites shine at the edges of Knox's eyes, catching the strengthening green glow of his ancestral bridle. His neck contorts to try and stretch across Faelon's back, looking almost surreal. His teeth, stained with the fox's blood, reach out and snap as he attempts to bite the white fool's loin. There, the skin is thin and the spine vulnerable. Dovev's dark mind haunts the hunter as Knox aims for such a delicate place, leaving him cold: Make him feel he's bound for death

In every sense of the instance, in ever fiber of Knox's being, the fight has begun.

—

[[PC: 1/4+CD || WC: 798 || M/CU: 1/2 || N: Knox agrees to the condition, adding that if Faelon loses he will become a prisoner of the Foothills.]]

The hunter feels a strange and familiar thrill as his body collides with Faelon’s. But this is a fight different than any the young stallion has ever before fought; this is not to the death. He lets the taste of fox’s blood fuel his power and push him forward. Though he feels the friction of a successfully blinded Faelon’s resistance pressing against him, the force behind the smaller andalusian fails to hinder him; in contrast to Knox’s own charged ram, Faelon’s stand-still is easily counteracted.

He lets loose a neigh of errant pride, influenced by his less honorable ancestors that wish to gloat their success, but his expression quickly returns to one of steely determination. He will not be bested today, in the gentle light and the biting Orangemoon cold, before his herdmates and the ever-watching eyes of his ancestors. Knox grits his teeth in heavy satisfaction and snorts as the sensation of his hind hooves making purchase on Faelon’s right gaskin shudders through him. A shiver crawls down his spine, but he is uncertain as to whether or not it springs from the cold or the confidence afforded to him by his own steady aim.

His own turn away from the scene of his last attack cannot come quickly enough, however; though he may be faster than his thicker-built brother the Dauntless, he is not fast enough to turn away completely from Faelon’s buck.

The impact is sharp and sudden, accentuated by the growing distance between the pair as Knox turns and the extension of Faelon’s buck. The young, dark challenger tosses his neck and clenches his jaw, but still a shocked sound emerges from betwixt his ebony lips. Though the buck has missed its intended mark as a result of Knox’s steady turn, Faelon’s golden hooves still strike Knox’s squarely in the fleshy back of his right thigh. The effect is immediate, leaving him with a burning pain that foreshadows a tough bruise, but it is nothing that Knox cannot power through. His father’s fresian blood runs firm through him, gifting him with a characteristic tolerance for pain. Though the hit does not stop him from stumbling in his step, he picks himself up with the assurance his father teaches him even now. Curful, sun, Roanne’s voice sounds in his mind, Curful uf yur body and pride.

The hunter takes each word to heart; though his teeth caught on nothing but air, he preserves. Not every attack of his own or Faelon’s will strike solid flesh by the battle’s end, he knows this. It is simply a fact; already Knox has failed. But failure is not a weakness, he reminds himself. Though in age and perhaps even fighting history Knox knows he is less experienced than Faelon, his steady heart and even confidence will aid him. It is his lack of self-doubt that will carry him through this.

Still, as he continues his gallop past Faelon, he feels the aching of his young, undeveloped body straining with the pressure of the fight. His hind aches sorely already, and he knows the injury will not be one he can ignore. Knox watches as Faelon turns to buck, but he has long since been clear- as nimble as the andalusian breed may be, he is still able to run faster than his opponent can turn and buck.

Refocusing on the next attack, Knox barrels forward and around, shifting his body attempt to be parallel to Faelon’s new position and circling widely around the white unicorn’s front. To charge Faelon directly would be foolish; though Knox is young, he has known the danger of a unicorn’s horn ever since first laying eyes on his spotted sibling. Peaceful as Kipp usually is, Knox had still been careful not to anger his brother as a colt— and still, Knox has not forgotten his brother’s violent transformation at the site of Mandrake’s death. He maneuvers to avoid Faelon’s front entirely, turning with care to charge towards the white unicorn’s right shoulder.

As he draws hopefully close to Faelon’s right, he inhales deeply. Despite the stinging in his thigh, Knox shifts his balance and pushes against his hind legs to rear; his forelegs churn wildly, aiming with care for Faelon’s head and neck. Only one hit Huric warns him. Only one strike of the skull to take a life.

But Knox has killed before—young as he is, the sight of blood is nothing new. He lets his body fall deliberately, aiming to try and press the weight of his falling hooves onto Faelon’s withers, and sighs as pressure leaves his aching hindquarters. Once more he turns his head and neck to bite the white stallion, this time hoping to tear at the flesh along the line of his neck. Maybe this time, he thinks.

—

[[PC: 2/4+CD || WC: 800 || M/CU: 1/2 || N: None]]

The hunter feels motion become him. The cold rushing of air is no longer simply a sight of the surroundings, it is his support amidst the chaos of the fray. Each cold gust, each thud of his hooves against the icing earth, returns him to reality. Frostfall is coming. So, too, is victory.

As his hooves successfully strike Faelon’s neck, he feels wild satisfaction begin to overcome the dull pain each second rearing brings to his thigh. He can push through it, he tells himself, if he can envision his success. Though he had watched with worry as Faelon reared, his strike against Faelon’s neck boosts his confidence. He calms himself as he watches his alabaster opponent, soothing his own nerves by reminding himself of how he has planned. He has expected a jab from the horn, he needs not fear it. It is this predictability that Knox foresaw and then moved to avoid; having come towards Faelon’s side at such a perpendicular angle, he is entirely out of the horn’s reach. With pleasure, he watches the gold dagger as it plunges forth, but feels only a rush of air from his left.

But Knox is not free from every move the andalusian makes. As the colt’s body falls naturally to the earth, soon to strike dirt instead of the withers as planned, he has moved inevitably closer to Faelon. Though the distance affords him time to easily grip Faelon’s neck as hoped, he feels, too, the intended knock of Faelon’s head against his own left shoulder. Knox’s positioning and descent skew its aim, but the hit is still there. He quickly loses his once firm and hopefully damaging grip on Faelon’s neck as the force of the smaller stallion pushes him away. Taken off guard, he falls faster and harder, his hooves impacting the earth as he lands somewhat shakily. For a moment, he is breathless and dazed- but only for a moment. Despite the distraction and the faint burn of pain spreading over his shoulder, he imagines Faelon will feel the impact to his skull just as severely.

It is this moment of hesitation that provides Faelon with the advantage over Knox. Though the colt sees Faelon running towards him, miraculously unhindered by the encounter, he only has just enough time to copy the motion himself and shift at an angle towards Faelon’s left flank as the unicorn heads for his own right. Though the colt feels the effort of battle weighing on him, he presses onwards, hoping to ram Faelon’s side.

Perhaps it is the focus on tactic or exhaustion creeping up on the ancestral hunter, but when he sees Faelon’s horn headed straight for his flank, it is in a panicked instant. The threat approaches in the corner of Knox’s vision, and he can only turn his body further away from the deadly weapon as he runs forward himself. The strike is, while not as damaging as intended, enough to draw blood. Knox groans and grits his teeth against a pained whinny as Faelon’s horn grazes his right thigh where he’d bucked it previously. Drops of thick, hot blood swell from the younger stud’s hind, forming a thin line along the surface wound.

Lucky, says a voice.
Not as lucky as I am to have you, Manhattan, he responds through the chaotic pain.

And so though Knox presses onward, stalwart and dauntless, running through his attempted ram and past Faelon, the pain and the sensation of failure slow every movement. He angles to turn in Faelon’s wake, hoping to circle back around so he might ram Faelon’s right, but he knows he won’t have the time if he does it alone. His blue eyes catch sight of Faelon rearing, but Knox is now far past the foolish challenger. With little more than a thought, he calls Manhattan to his aid. With nothing more than a movement, she obeys.

Her body darts out from the gathered crowd, her paws pounding against the earth and carrying her with practiced speed towards Faelon’s left. She uses her momentum to jump, perhaps recklessly but nonetheless with the aim of a hunter, and lets her jaws widen and snap. She aims for his left forearm, hopefully as he descends from his rear, and lets her poison flood from her fangs as she attempts to tear at his white flesh. Her attack is to be short lived, her landing neat, and her exit from the battlefield well timed, marked by her brushing by her master’s thundering hooves and her returning to the crowd. Afforded time and distraction, Knox gallops forth, carefully avoiding the possibility of a buck, to try to ram Faelon’s right shoulder. His neck curls over hopefully Faelon’s back, and once again, his teeth clench to bite the spine.

—

[[PC: 3/4+CD || WC: 799 || M/CU: 2/2 || N: Poison from Manhattan's bite will have negative effects for one post if the hit is taken.]]