Yes! Wessex’s aim is true, and there is a massive flair of satisfaction as the Corporal resists the urge to spit back, ‘Careful what you ask for!’ Except for the fact that Wessex herself summoned the mare, and so, her opponent didn’t have much of a choice. That, however, is pure semantics because this isn’t something the warrior simply asks for - it’s something she needs. Instead of looking at her mutations in an ‘unfortunate’ light (despite whatever self-disparaging remarks she may utter in public), she now sees them as something beneficial, an odd (really fucked up) twist of fate which gives her an unmistakable purpose.

Then her tail finds its mark, and the child in her who will forever seek her dead mother’s approval rears its ugly head with a smug, gleeful little laugh. Zunden’s scream merely spurs her on, setting a smile to her normally stoic face - wide and unrestrained. Gods, she will never tire of this!  

What’s interesting about this spar is that they both have Percheron in their blood - Wessex’s mixing with Andalusian, while Zunden’s mixes with something else. Heavy and tall, she is affectionately called half-moose and half-tank, depending on whom one asks; her speed slows as she pivots back around to face Zunden, but that does not mean she can’t stand her ground and take the weight the soldier throws at her. It feels to Wessex like their impact is akin to the crashing of boulders in a rock slide, the impact echoing across the open area. It almost knocks the breath from her chest, and in truth, she is unused to someone using her own tactic against her! But this why they spar - to face every opponent imaginable. To learn.

She is stalled, perhaps for more than a couple of breaths, as she struggles to push back against her herdmate. Hooves dig into the grass, and practice from previous spars on the sand might be the reason Wessex is able to keep her footing - but even she cannot completely dodge her opponent’s impressive pair of horns - especially when trying to maneuver her own. They seem to have the same impulse, to gouge and gore with spikes, and a red-hot line of fire rips across her neck as their lines mistakenly get crossed. The Corporal yanks her head diagonally back and away, a grunt-roar escaping from her mouth in surprise. The movement itself stings even more, as the edges of flesh separate and threaten to tear apart even more. It’s shallow, but long, and close to the rather sensitive underside of her neck. Her legs follow her head’s trajectory and she hopes that Zunden will be too busy waving her horns around to notice she’s taken a step back. Ideally, it gives her a moment of space, takes her away from a striking foreleg, and allows an opportunity to clear her head so she set a course and aim for it; Wessex lowers her head and after leaping forward with a little pawing into the air, she aims to somehow maneuver around Zunden’s horns and scrape her own spears along the gray’s withers and upper back.

Wessex tries to follow down the line of the soldier’s body, but knows full well that pain makes one move away from the stimulus. She wants to get in another good laceration with her tail, perhaps just to add some icing on the cake, because she is a cocky bitch (with a title!) after all, and has everything to prove. Wessex has no intention of holding back, because how will that help either of them? She’s taken beatings, and now it’s time to pass it on. With a swish of her heavily armed tail, she tries to rake it across the mare’s chest before pulling away from a dangerous pair of hind legs. The Corporal knows all too well that their frames, their muscles, are instruments that can pack a hefty punch. It would be stupid to linger. Even though endurance is not Wessex’s strong suit, she’d rather make Zunden chase after her spikey rear end or come at her from the front.

Even with her injury, Wessex finds herself enjoying this fight far more than she has her previous ones - so much so that a slight smile drifts across her face again as she tries to lure her opponent into a chase.