The dark, tingling essence of vile contortions, horrid manipulations, bits and pieces of unfurled, uncoiled fire ended abruptly when she shut her mouth, surveying the damage she caused. The embers sprinkled over Sialia’s hide, and the guilt funneled and furrowed deep into her brows, along her chest, rippling and wrinkling any successful, content, or gratitifed sentiment she may have felt. She went back and forth in a constant seesaw of triumph, then melancholy, festering amongst this strange, unnerving brew. Should she be proud of her accomplishments, or ashamed at maiming a fellow herd member? Should she cheer at her efforts, or utter a stream of apologies? Should she gleam and prance, or lower her head in chagrin?

But she didn’t have much time to putter around the hollowed void, the bitter sector pulsing in her chest, for no sooner had the rain of coals dashed across Sialia’s form, did she begin again, cantering, striding towards her, coasting along the tundra lines and loam, and the sense of battle struck the poor Songbird again.

She approached head on, and for a moment Lena thought they might crash, become battering rams of the icy regime, toppling over in jousting formations, and lay emboldened across the earth. But the other femme dodged towards the right, ivories bared, lancing and lacing for her right shoulder.

Her bruised contortions, her fighting spirit, yearned not to be clashed and lacquered with another wound, another laceration, another mark, and hastened her bruised, battered body into a surge of stride. It felt like forever, bracing her marked limbs (they reminded her of their presence in a swift, rapid force of pain, of numbing, binding aches) against the summer grass, pushing, pushing, pushing, launching towards the left, and managing to miss the snap, the crunch, the chomp, of Sialia’s teeth.

And just like that – it was over. Her first spar completed. Sialia stood a few yards away, a smile on her features, before wandering towards the hot springs, and Lena’s gallant heart pulsed with a manic frenzy, trying to draw on breath, repose, and resolution. She’d done it – not without pain, not without torment, but she’d managed to secure experience, and the notion alone had to be something: either she was capable, or a floundering dunce.

Slowly, carefully, she too drew along in the direction of the mending springs, broadening her own grin despite the bitter, stiffening contortions to her left side, Imogen rushing along her limbs (far too much triumph laced in her furry, ferocious little core). She laced warm songs, bright, luminescent chords, fluttering them back towards the breeze, as if naught had ever happened. “Thank you for the spar. Would you like me to heal you?”

Perhaps next time she’d be able to endure even more.

[1/1 final defense post. 460 words.
Since the attack missed, as Sialia comes towards Lena’s right shoulder, the Mender dodges to the left.

Overall injuries: bruised, battered left side (especially her left hip). Front limbs also a bit bruised.

Thank you for the spar Nessie! ^_^]