THE HARUSPEX
on his own

He was still half asleep, this much should not be forgotten. Whatever wisdom Rexanna found in his words could liably be attributed more to her powers of perception and interpretation (surely the the thief in her lent her this skill) than what Ashamin was able to cobble together. It was true, too, that the painted haruspex was growing to doubt his own knowledge.

It seemed, lately, as if it were just more words sinking into a murky pool. If anyone was still alive in the water to make any use of them, fine, but he was abandoning them without care. He was just littering, let others find gems in his waste.

But still, she thanked him. That was really the burden of this position, the same burden that would not bother so many others--taking credit when it wasn't really due. Ashamin suppressed a snort, holding it in at the last second when he realized she was about to tell him of her past.

This was becoming a frequent occurrence.

He listened with something alternating between feigned and genuine interest. He did care, really, he did. But how many others had such tragic stories to tell? It was more sadness that made him feel jaded--sadness that such horrible pasts were so common. Especially, he noted, among the mares he'd met. Was it really so hard to be female? He hadn't thought about it, before had never considered his sex a privelege.

Nor had he considered it a burden. He was just, well... a being. Perhaps he succumbed to machismo impressed upon him by a warrior lifestyle, but hadn't Zandora proven to him that you didn't need to be a tough guy to slay on the field?

He still had a fading scar from that fight. His sarong was still stained red.

Slowly, he faded back into the present. Cliche? No, not cliche. "Your past isn't an archetype, Rexanna. Don't allow yourself to consider your pain to be nothing more than a trope, you must value it," he added, the last clause advised in particular earnest. "You have gone through much, and while it is true you are not alone you are still unique. Your pain is yours alone, others can only help you through it. You have to conquer it, turn it into something useful." His long tail wound about, awkward and snakelike. He narrowed his eyes--in part in reaction to the sun shifting and sending bright waves of light into his cave--and tried to catch her gaze. Did she understand?

When the thief mentioned Caleb, then he snorted audibly. He could not suppress a response at the thought of that stallion. "So it's Caleb, then, is it? A curious boy. Last time I saw him, well..." he trailed off, first chuckling, then thinking. Yes, that had been a disastrous spar. He'd had to put Caleb in place more than once, to be sure.

Slowly, Ashamin walked towards the light and the open, an idea on his mind. "Go speak with Caleb, and this Temobvu, if you believe it to be right. But if you'd grant me the honor I'd like to spar with you first, Rexanna." Ashamin called behind him, letting the day greet him with its obnoxious rays. When he was out in the open, the soft green-speckled grown beneath all four hooves, he turned back to where he hoped she'd followed him.

"I think it might do you some good. Sometimes there's no better cure for sorrow than action."

""