The prince tripped over his legs as he landed badly on his forehooves, his armour clattering. Handy withdrew, turned on his heels, and brought his glaive down level with his opponent, resting against the side of his shield. He wobbled for a bit but quickly moved his foot before anything could become of it. Trying to wreck someone’s shit while hungover was an interesting experience. He looked at the fallen blade out of the corner of his helmet slit. It was long and absurdly thin, bladed only on one side. It was hiltless, with only a narrow hooking mechanism which he assumed was how Blueblood connected it to his armour. Its entire mass was otherwise dedicated to a slashing piece of metal. It looked fragile, but as the force of the first sword taught him, it was anything but.