The gangly, gambling stride of the one called Damascus had become refined and precise, his overgrown body and legs having moulded over the months into a final well-rounded nineteen hands. On this day it was the anniversary of his birth, or rather, the day he had chosen it to be. Early autumn was when Damascus has taken his first steps but that date had always been a mystery to him - so he chose one out of all the numbers and days in a month to be his day. The ninth day of fall was when Damascus turned three.
"Birthday of mine on today!" Damascus cheered to Dohv as he struck his plate-sized hooves across the cobblestone, eyes seeking the sunrise and skin seeking a golden blessing of the suns first rays. "Warrior dusks of be myself now Dohv!" he would then announce, an immense amount of pride puffing his chest. 

He was no longer a youth, unranked and paid no attention to - now he could pursue the career he had sought to begin since he otok his first breath in the continent. 
Damascus: Dusk's only sword.