Blueblood snorted, and his head turned as if searching the gathered crowd for something. "Fighters, at the ready!" That was the cue. Handy spread his legs apart and shifted his centre of weight. His head continued to pound something awful, but he suddenly found himself not giving one rotten damn. Here before him stood the uptight little shit who hid behind dear old Ciara's skirts after going out of his way to piss Handy off and shit on the memory of his mother. Everything else simply did not matter right now, and the world could just go and promptly fuck off while he got his murder on. The stallion look agitated, his eyes wide as he continued to glare at Handy, uncertainty written across his face. "Begin!"