Blueblood opened his eyes. Was he dead? He could still hear the roar of the crowd surrounding him and the weight of the armour on his body. He looked down, his jaw level with the dusty wood chipped strewn floor. No, he wasn’t dead. It was worse than that. The realization hit him as soon as he felt the sweat on his skin and spotted splotches of matted fur around the fetlocks between his hoof-boots and leg armour. “I’m filthy!” he whined, his voice barely above a whisper.