That's Midnighter, alright. Inveterate showoff who is having way too much fun in the thick of it. He's grinning like a madman, and the wind waves the cloth in front of his face around enough to give little snapshots of his expression, wild-eyed and blood-splattered.

He shoves the knight's body off the horse, which is still nickering dejectedly from the aching wound in its side. It's a destrier, sixteen hands high and just under three thousand pounds. If it ran over either of them, it would be a very painful, but inarguable, death sentence.

"I think Lucky over here's seen worse, haven't you, boy?" Midnighter pats Lucky's head in a parody of kindness. The horse whinnies as it sees the knight streaming toward them, lance out as though he expects to joust. They don't have anything nearly as long-reaching, just their scimitars and their giant, stupid horse.

Midnighter doesn't seem bothered by this. "Sword out, fucker!" And he's surging forward, edging Lucky along.