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]]