Wet sand and curses flew in random directions in the middle of a shallow bit of lake, the legacy of Six-Seventy-Five's burrowing hooves. Every now and again, he took out some of his frustrations by smacking the near-comatose changeling across it's exposed hindlegs.
Of course, he failed to mention not doing much himself other than letting every-ling else get beaten up or killed. Considering the occasional moan, so far the changeling with his head in the sand had outdone the rest, and curses or not, Six-Seventy-Five at least knew he had the best, last way of getting the dirty work done without having to get near those crazy horned maniacs. Once he dug him out, anyway. At least the cowering ponies weren't going anywhere-
The creak and clatter of Blueblood pushing out of the ruined cabin put that line of thought to an end. One inbred, prancing unicorn, standing on the deck waving something around he had no possible idea how to use. The one idiot that made the grub under his hooves look like a paragon of warriors.
A final shove with a spearshaft popped the sandy grub into the air, bumbling in a beeline for the Prince. Six-Seventy-Five followed, spear gritting between his teeth.
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Offer the enemy a bait to lure him; feign disorder and strike him.
Blueblood capered a bit more, just to make sure the two changelings would commit. Mostly, he thought about tearing their wings off like flies and grinding them into green mush, but he knew, without knowing that a fierce show would only make the things too cautious to kill them both. He had no intention on letting either one escape to find reinforcements, and the one with the spear was clearly the leader. Given a chance, the drone would flee and bring back more.
The first changeling was, thankfully unarmed save for hoof and fang. A swift duck disguised as a cower let the beast drag it's hooves through the air inches above Blueblood's back on the first pass, while the flat of the axe encouraged it to come back for a second run with a clumsy-looking swat that said "Look at me, I can't even hit you with the sharp end of a weapon!".
A near-miss from a flying hoof on the second pass provoked a surprising reaction.
Blueblood's hide sparked as the bruising strike landed on one shoulder, an angry red that gouged a thin spread of sparkling crimson from the impact before fading into the air- but aside from a bit of dirt, the flesh underneath worked as well as before. Only a lingering feeling of lessened energy remained, but in exchange a strange feeling of pressure remained, one that only increased as he nicked the mockery of a tail on the changeling warrior with the axe.
It, too left a brief spray of color, green rather than red- and though the thing clearly felt the glancing blow, there was no sign of ichor leaking from what should have been a narrow cut across it's backside. The distraction proved doubly painful as a line of fire drew itself along Blueblood's side, the other changeling taking a pass with it's superior reach to hamstring the unicorn...
...and the point slid through Blueblood in an agonizing tear, like his leg was being torn in two...
...only to reform behind the slashing spearpoint as if nothing had happened in the first place. Something vital had drained away in the process of leaving him standing, but despite the increasing feeling of emptiness somewhere in the unicorn's spirit, the body remained- as if the bruises and stabs had only gnawed away at some inner reserve in him.
And the pressure built, like a full-body desire to find the nearest little pony's room and get rid of a gallon of champagne.
Feign weakness...
The axe wobbled and dipped back as if to fend off the already departed changeling, and the warrior changeling dove in with fangs bared to sink them into Blueblood's throat...
...and strike!
The axe fell neatly into his tail, and the feeling of pressure surged through the contact, into the weapon as he spun in place.
Two explosions of green marked the thrashing trail of the axe blade as it met the changeling's skull with a brutal one-two drubbing, and the thing tumbled full speed into it's foe- only to lose cohesion as black met white, crumbling into insubstantial motes that briefly coated the floor.
As the defeated monster vanished, Blueblood felt something pass from the dying thing. Something magical, that soaked into his spirit and as it did, an unknown limit within had been surpassed. The feeling of lost vitality vanished, renewed vigor and then surpassed as the energy seemed to rewrite parts of his own body- strength, vitality, and even the edges of his thoughts gained as if a whetstone had sharpened them.
Six-Seventy-Five screeched in abject terror as the unicorn had obliterated his warrior with a rusty axe. "What kind of freakish pony magic do you unicorns HAVE?", he howled as he turned to fly away. Far away. He'd get the main force of changelings with the hostages, bring them here, because NOTHING was getting him near that stallion. There wasn't a force in the universe that would convince him to get near something that could reduce a changeling to dust with a weapon like that. Nothing.
For his own part, Blueblood cursed as the feeling of power distracted him from a chance to kill both the lesser and the greater changeling- already, Six-Seventy-Five was turning and rising out of easy reach. A red rage gathered at the edges of his vision, scorn and mental venom that he cast at the cowardly retreating thing like a spear.
The resulting blast of sound and fury was utterly unexpected.
A blinding feeling of HATE tore into Six-Seventy-Five's mind, obliterating the desire for flight and replacing with an unreasoning need to put the spear in his hooves through Blueblood's heart. A small piece of the changeling realized that somehow, the unicorn had gifted him with a bit of his own bloodlust as he rocketed down at his foe, all thoughts lost but for the furthest he could put the point through his enemy's guts before the weapon broke in two, hopefully after it'd gone through the prancing horn-head and out the other side..
Axe swung. Spear stabbed. Neither managed to vent their wrath fully on the other, though both traded hits. Once. Twice. Thrice, as the strange pressure built in both, stoked with each blow that struck home and every sparking moment of pain as the two tore into each other in a bloodless yet brilliant show of light and fury.
Six-Seventy-Five looped around for a fourth pass and the pressure turned into a ghastly green nimbus of flame that enveloped him from spearpoint to broken-branch tail as he dove at Blueblood, the impact leaving the unicorn looking like a smouldering log crushed under an iron horseshoe. Bloody sparks fountained in every direction as the spear gouged through and left the changeling digging a smouldering line in the deck. An ordinary pony would have been gutted by the blow, and indeed, the impact had left Blueblood staggering...
...but not down. And as Six-Seventy-Five gathered himself to take to the air again, the raging axe of Blueblood came down in a double-crossing blow that whipped the drone into the deck. A horrid, drifting feeling replaced the pain of the blows, and the beast's body failed to respond to every panicked demand to move, to attack, to flee...anything. White light narrowed the monster's vision to a tunnel filled with Blueblood's eyes as the sound of hooves moved closer, closer...
"W....what...how...imp-p-possible!"
Six-Seventy-Five looked down to see his chitinous form shudder like a sand castle, conquered by the waves of the sea.
"Whaaaaaaat did you do to MEEEEEEEEEEE!"
And with a final jarring scream, he dissolved from the hooves up, a look of absolute terror frozen on his face as the last pieces of his form vanished into the air. Again, Blueblood felt something pass from the broken changeling, but whatever it was, the second time it was not enough- and he could feel his grip on the world was loose and threadbare, as if another blow would spread him across the deck to mix with the dust of his departed enemies. The changeling's final charge had very nearly ended him...but there were no black-shelled fiends left. Victory by the skin of his horn, but victory none the less.
Slowly, with the feeling of his half-torn spirit a ghostly puppeteer to every step, the winner of the battle returned to his wife and guard.