Of course the black boy is quick to hop away from my assault. His crow hop into the air denies me the pleasure of sinking my fangs into him, and instead I only get the uppermost layer of skin, sliced like the peeling of an apple. My magic seems to have no affect on him - but perhaps it was because I did not get a good grip? I can't stop to think of the how's, the why's, even if I wanted to. My rage is too great, my frustration too overpowering. I toss my head back as his blood stains my teeth, and I turn it away to avoid a smack to the face with a flailing hoof.

His rage is tangible, though I wonder if we lined up one against the other if one would be much greater than the other's. This battle isn't strategic, it's raw and animalistic, wild with pent up... there's no one word for the feelings that we both have. With this raging turmoil inside of me I cannot process Öde as my fellow Basiner, only as my enemy, my prey, a threat to my safety and not the least my pride!

His crow-hopping continues a second, third time, followed by a wild buck. I'm trying to move out of the way, but wild legs and hooves are not always so easy to escape, and one of his crow hops brings a hoof down to slice against my ribcage, leaving a bleeding gash behind. The blood begins to soak my hairs, matting them down against my skin. I wince, and howl in pain, moving away from the rest of his writhing movements. I can't stay close, but I can't move any farther away. I need to be within reach for any of my attacks to strike home. The stallion has moved away from me, and the look he gives me as he glances over his shoulder is one of fierce menace, and my hairs stand on end as I let out a fierce hiss at him, my hackles raising, skin wrinkling with whiskers and ears flat against my skull. He moves toward me at an easy trot, carrying little of the wounds that I carry, still able-bodied and ferocious. I back away like the beast from the tamer and roar vociferously at his approaching mass. My own weight moves back and forth from one paw to another, feeling the ground, the air, trying to map out my surroundings and future course of action.

Defeat at the hooves of Arah was bad enough, but understandable because it was my first spar with an equine, or really anyone but Zima. Defeat at the hooves of Öde was perhaps more respectable concept because he was more built for fighting in his stature - more muscular, rugged. But at the same time, I feel that since he is still an upcoming young stallion, and this is my second 'go' at sparring, that I should be faring better than I am. (And is it not obvious from our wounds that I am faring worse than he?) To join my pure rage at the thought is the fear of shame, hatred of him for his current success. It's the potential for a grudge that I will be slow to let die. But even if defeat may be near at hand, that doesn't mean I won't fight to the end.

But what he attempts to do takes me by surprise. He drives me back toward the hot springs with the threat of his horns. I am slow to move, reluctant to give up ground, but he blocks my attempts at escape. I hiss again and soon enough I'm back in the water. Luckily for me, I don't mind the water or the warmth, and though I may move slower now do to the resistance of the liquid and the weight of my wet pelt, I am not finished in this battle. The water burns my wounds at first, but quickly becomes soothing, and I'm prepared to launch my last attack. I leap head-on toward him, my fear of his horns coming second to my desire to make him hurt. My hind paws take purchase on the slope of the pools, propelling me toward Öde's head with front paws and claws extended, aiming for crown, neck, whatever I can reach to bring him back toward me, into the water with me. Of course, I'm at risk of being stabbed in the chest, but logic doesn't accompany my moves, only the raw emotions that send me at my enemy with crazed eyes of the wounded and reckless.

"Speech."
772 words
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