The brat did everything right, and Ashamin did everything wrong. The apparent injustice and irony, as far as he was concerned, was unforgivable on his own behalf, and on Rikyn's as well.

The Haruspex had only just stepped out into the muddy morning when Rikyn had muttered his snide remark—had only just gathered his strength in his body when the fight began and everything went awry.

Ashamin was so suddenly taken aback by the younger stallion's sudden appearance amid the mist and shadow, as if coming from nothing, that he has no time to respond. And then that little spitfire charged, unforgiving, hardly saying anything. There were no names, no greeting in that early shadow. As hot as the offense that burned in Ashamin's chest was, he at least would have wished to exchange words. This was no blind battle for him—but for Rikyn? Ashamin was unsure.

The instant Rikyn started running Ashamin had tried to reposition himself—to angle to the left and flash the intimidating gold of his scars, to face some direction so that he wouldn’t be dead in Rikyn's sights. But the mud was an unexpected hindrance, denying him all purchase on the earth and sliding his balance swiftly out from under him. He had made a foolish mistake by not taking in the surroundings, but perhaps Rikyn's eagerness could in part have taken away all time he had to do so. It was unclear.

Everything was unclear: everything was mud

He had spoken too soon of blindness, for too long taken for granted his keen eyesight. As Ashamin began that fatal rear, his balance poor as his hind hooves slipped and his front half sloped back towards the earth, the thick stuff flew up towards his chest and face. A few flecks reached his eyes and he churned his forelegs as if pawing at the air would somehow bring his balance or clear vision back. Was it anger towards Rikyn's ignorance that had made him so blind? Could he truly blame only the mud? He struggled to blink it away and maintain his balance on his hind hooves. At least, there was no pain. The Haruspex had noticed the angle of Rikyn's long horn upon approach, so unlike the one Caleb had taken on in their spar. The faint pointing of the weapon's tip in a direction away from Ashamin, the intention to strike rather than stab, was something Ashamin could at last respect.

Maybe Rikyn wasn't worthless. Maybe he had a scrap of decenc-

"Shit!"

Ashamin rarely cursed. He rarely had that much negative excitement in him to find it necessary. And to let such a cry loose in the middle of a spar, no, at the very beginning, was a sign of significant weakness. But as the four-letter-word came out, hoarse in his pained neigh, it felt damn appropriate.

The flash of pain had blinded him even more thoroughly than the mud--forced him to shut his eyes and forget about vision entirely. His tail lashed and whipped down to strike the mud and send shocks across it, perhaps some that would scare Rikyn again if Ashamin was lucky. There was no way to see through it: regardless of Rikyn's intended aim, Ashamin was stabbed. The horn had pierced his right stifle with deadly inaccuracy.

The paint felt like a bottle plugged by a cork. A dark, spiraled, painful cork. And he couldn't move, he could only panic. Everything had happened so quickly, and now he was falling, his forehooves still striking out in a panic, and his whole body angling back towards the right--as if that would somehow let Rikyn's horn slide carefully out of the wound, as if somehow Ashamin could manage to strike Rikyn's withers, neck, anything, with that helpless flailing.

More than anything, the painted buck felt shame. He was ashamed he had so swiftly been handed this disadvantage, and ashamed that he could blame it on nothing and no one but himself.

How foolish he had been, to think he might have been able to forget the feeling. But no, Ashamin would never live a life without shame. It would always be there, a lingering, punitive presence: a reminder of the ways that he failed.

The unwise warrior fell towards Rikyn's left, grimacing as the pressure his movement put against the horn pushed blood to flow hot and free. He fell and he struck out, his only hope that his hooves might find purchase or his weight would knock Rikyn down.

But even those weren't hopes he could have without shame. They were just defensive, wild thoughts: the kind that went through the head of a madman.

How quickly was this practice going to drive him insane? When would it kill him?

""

WC: 799
PC: 1/3
Timeline: 1 Week Between
Summary: Ashamin tries to angle to the left to avoid Rikyn and starts to rear but has poor balance and footing as a result of the mud. A bit of the mud gets Ashamin in the eyes and this combined with his struggle to get the right angle/balance causes him to panic and start kicking out with his forelegs. His slip while rearing put him in the path for the tip of Rikyn's horn rather than its side and his right stifle is stabbed. His tail slaps the ground, perhaps sending shocks across it as it is wet. He panics, trying to lean back to his right, towards Rikyn's left, and continues to kick out blindly, vaguely near Riykn's withers/neck/back area.
Notes: My bad for not knowing Rikyn was a soldier, I'm happy to make this his seasonal spar if the leads approve. Sorry also for the wait! This was a tough one for me to think through because of the 6 roll but Rikyn's fairly nonviolent attack.

ASHAMIN