“Your soul is pure, Lio. In time, you will know anger. You will know the fire of battle. But remember, son, you must never, never, lose your head. The moment you lose control, you begin to make mistakes.” Like a wisp of smoke the memory flees from him, but his eyes harden and sharpen with the knowledge his sire had bestowed upon him. Inside, the blood howls for blood, but he has been trained from far earlier and for far longer than most. Tolio will not easily forget the lifestyle he had been raised to follow.

The dull resonation of impact still aches beautifully within his hind cannons, and he hopes the mud was wiped upon the breast of his foe, to sully him in a way that could not be achieved by battle- only shame. Pleasure blooms at the fact he managed even a single blow so far. And instead of frustration clawing at his breastbone when the earth-shaking hoofbeats followed behind him, heavy with the mass of the much larger lad, the bloodied hunter takes a deep breath. This is his arena. Never waver. Never doubt. Just strike.

Listening, he hears the stutter in the dark draft’s gait, obvious through the level, thunderous kiss of his hooves to the earth. Turning, then. Tolio slides easily upon the slick mud with his lighter frame; as his momentum finalizes and fizzles, he sees clearly his opponent once more. There's no time to react, to breathe. Time doesn't slow, it will never slow, will never falter or pause for any mortal. It's now, or never. Something crazed lies in the october eyes he faces, but it only encourages him. Brains often won out over brawn after all. Despite the fact that his breed could hardly rear, the dark brute lunges, powerful hindquarters in good use to give him height that gravity normally wouldn't granted. Teeth snap, eyes flash, slick hooves fly through the air, thick matted feathers following like a broken banner. He doesn't know which leg Madyrn aims for; has to take all possibilities into account. Tolio faces the eastern borders, and he vows; he will not cross them without victory on his shoulder.

Draft hooves could crush and break bones so easily. Either he sacrificed his leg to a dire slash, or he risked a tear to his flanks- a weak spot for all horses- and a body shove that could send him to his knees or worse in this dreadful bog. If he suffers the blow, he has the chance to return an attack. If not, swinging his hind end away would ruin any momentum, advantage, and time he had to return the blows. Tolio clenches his jaw, makes his decision. Settling his weight on broad, quarter-horse hindquarters, he shuddered slightly as he lifted from the unsteady ground with a shove from his forelegs to the left and the sky simultaneously, looming over the older, larger stallion. They were close in height, but Tolio was still that little bit taller. The movement to the left from his forelegs swung his lower body to the right, flank narrowly missing the gouging headed its way but teeth still clipping and scraping across his thigh down to his stiffle. Tolio’s muted screech fled his throat in a tangle of rage as massive hooves crushed down on his left, hind cannon, ripping the skin the entire way down- or at least that’s how it felt; fire raging up his leg, spilling out like lava and infecting his muscles with agony.

Unsteady already, he jerked forward to evade the pain, red hooves already aimed for Madyrn’s unprotected spine from the draft’s left side, using his weight and momentum to shove down towards it. His leg throbbed and screamed at him, his thigh sore and likely bleeding, and his entire hind left leg quaked with the sudden fail of his muscles as the pain momentarily crippled him. Bitterly he hoped the bastard enoyed his slighter frame crashing with full weight upon his spine, hooves aimed to slice skin. Should he not connect, the angle would have his breast aligning with Madyrn’s left flank, and he would pass by harmlessly. Should that happen- unlikely with Madyrn’s heavy frame and slower speed- Tolio was prepared to use the horn he’d been crowned with to put the vile, mudblooded equine in his place. Now, he just leans upon his right hind leg in compensation, bears down, and hopes to connect on such a vital spot, more than ready to let his forelegs remove the pain of rearing, already tipping forward heavily from the instinctive urge to flee the pain of his hind leg. Upon gaining all four hooves again, he would have his revenge.


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Word Count: 799
Post: 2/4