You stalk the land and a slow trot, eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of life. Each heavy step you make brings a small thud up to your ears and your tail flicks with amusement. The line you walk is not an entirely straight one, an effect of the plants you love to indulge in surely. You're coming out of one of your locoweed stupors and your muscles are itching for a good fight. You haven't had a good go at someone since you left your own land, though most of those fights were to get people off your back. You were more of a laughing stock, a freak show attraction, than a valued member of society. You certainly look that way now, all covered in mud and dirt and anything else that just happened to stick to your coat. Maybe lace-face's little band of outcasts will be the right place for you after all.

In entering a field you finally spot another form of life- some moss covered stallion trotting across the open ground. He seems a little more coordinated than you, a little smaller but similar in build. Ah yes, a clash of the titans. If he doesn't run off, this should prove a perfectly fun event. You rumble softly, a laugh that is building in your throat. “Hey you,” you boom into the open, a little drool falling from your lips as they move, “Mossy Boy, lets have some fun!” You halt and toss your head, doing a little half-rear to indicate your intentions. Your hooves crash back to the ground unceremoniously and you take a step to the side to widen your stance, keeping you from tipping like a fool.

Watching him briefly for a reaction, you lower your head and shrug the strap that holds your bag in place over your shoulders. Stepping out of the loop that keeps it on your limb, you pick the bag up and grab it in your mouth. You resume your ambling, wavy trot, aiming yourself towards where the stallion had been. The bag swings in your mouth and you almost laugh at your intentions. If he has not moved, you are within a few steps of him now. Picking up a canter, you suddenly toss the bag where you think his face should be. “Catch,” you grumble before putting your left shoulder forward and trying to ram it into his right rib cage. Hopefully the bag will serve as a distraction. At the same time you lower your head and then lift it, trying to rake your horns across the flesh of his neck. Oh yes, this feels right.

WC: 445
Attack: 1/3
OOC: Will edit with our judging preference, waiting on a response from Selkie!