Perhaps if not for the glowing of his own heart, painted by a lover in shades so bright that they seemed radioactive in her absence, Ashamin might have been spared the grisly sight of her injuries. The marking, however, was not so kind. Ironic that it was the most tender part of Ashamin's being that subjected him to the punishment of witnessing his crimes.

It became clear to the Clovenheart in the moments that he heard Ovidius cry out a needless warning, that she fell, recovered, and lifted up a face marred by blood, that he was a monster, and not the kind that could be forgiven, or ignored, or shoved into a deeper part of himself in order to be outshone. No, Ashamin the Clovenheart had the potential for just as much evil as he did kindness, and no amount of good deeds could outweigh the bad that were surely to come. Such was the cruel manner of fate.

Thus, frozen in this moment of horror, the Clovenheart could only stand dumbstruck as the mare moved closer to retaliate. Even her response, though, was weak in comparison to Ashamin's display of force. Perhaps Ovi had misjudged, or perhaps she (despite her injuries) simply did not have enough malice in her small body to fight back with any aim to hurt. Ashamin could only speculate. Whatever the reason, when her horn struck his left side it only smacked it with a firm thud—hard enough to bruise and irritate the flesh, to sink the hooves on his right deeper into the sand as he tried to maintain his balance, but not nearly as damaging as his own strike upon the mare.

Vaguely, in a moment of devastation’s passing, the painted buck considered that once—before the muscle and thick skin had built up around his heart—the injury would have hurt him much more.

"Don't worry about ME!" He roared then, his voice suddenly sharp. The words were not tender advice, they were a command issued as he attempted to sidepass to his right and distance himself from Ovi.

Behind him, Rakt's gold eyes were wide with the disease that was innocence lost and regret first born. The blood colored cerndyr stepped back, away from the fight, as if suddenly hurt by the pain he'd helped cause. He turned to face his brother, but found Lochan staring straight ahead, unfazed.

At least this time, the black cerndyr said to no one, into the only void fit to receive the horrible truth delivered by a voice he'd finally grown into, no one is dead.

But Rakt heard the words. Ashamin heard the words, and by the cold pain of their accuracy he was struck numb. What could he say to that? What could he say, that he wasn't a murderer? That once, on a day darker than any other he'd lived through, a mare hadn't merely taunted him and revealed a monster? No, to say such things would be to lie. Ashamin the Clovenheart was many things, perhaps even many evil things, but he told himself he was not a liar.

He responded with rage, as he always denied that he did. With whatever vestiges of his civility were left, though, he did his best to contain it. Distancing himself from Ovidius and her wounds—so horrible, painted in such an obvious red—had been in some ways a selfish act. If he was further away he could not see her pain so clearly, nor could he cause her any more. Fearing that he did not know his own physical strength, the Clovenheart turned instead to his magic.

"If someone strikes without thinking, that is their error to make and your opportunity to run, Ovi!" Ashamin insisted, shutting his eyes tight to avoid looking at her, to avoid seeing the disappointment that was surely in her gaze. "If you do not think you can attack without taking more injury than you will give, you keep your distance," he went on, trying to slow his breathing, to calm his fury. In his own heart his magic began to stir, unpredictable and new. Ashamin had utilized the manifestation magic before, but never in its more powerful state.

Perhaps he was foolish to try it now, but maybe... maybe she would be hurt less, this way. This was the lie he told himself as he pulled lightning from Ovi's chest and formed it into a sharp eyed fox, adorned with the same spikes the mare bore. This was the lie he told himself as he shifted the shock from the being's skin to its inner core, and prayed for the end of his own existence.

For Ashamin the Clovenheart was many things, perhaps even many evil things, but he would only lie to himself.


""

Ashamin