The problem with the Throat was that there was no where to hide. Perhaps Father would have said that it was a blessing, that any who would try and shed blood on these lands would have to do so openly. But today that was unhelpful. I know very little about strategy, but I do know a few things. For instance, I know that I don't have a hope in hell of beating Einarr, but if there was at least a little cover, perhaps I could at least make him proud by using it. As it was, unless a sandstorm suddenly accompanied my arrival, he would see me coming from miles away.
No cover. No distractions. It was just he and I. The Warden and the Prince.
The winner was already obvious. Einarr was only a few inches taller than I am, but he was much more robust. It would be easy to blame my Mother's Andalusian influence and her slighter build as the reason why my frame was still so narrow, but that wasn't the entire reason. I hadn't done much by way of training. A few misguided spars here and there and my mandatory patrols. Other than that, I hadn't really done much. My days were filled by selfish missions to try and find myself a companion, but were always frustrated one way or another. Either my answers to the questions posed by the keepers of the eggs were deemed not good enough, or they were just wrong. The more I aged, the less I could use my youthful naivety and my parental absence as reasons for my failure. I was a stallion now, and my faults fell solely on my shoulders.
But maybe today could be different. Without the fear of failure (for one can't properly be said to fail when there was never the chance to succeed), there was no pressure. Einarr knew that I needed training - it was why he had offered to teach me. The rougher I started out, the more I could improve.
That was a nice way of thinking about it.
I came at him from the sky, with the sun at my back. It was the only thing I could do, really. By forcing him to look up at the sun to follow my movements, hopefully he would be blinded long enough to partially obscure my attack. Though in all honesty, I knew he wouldn't be stupid enough to just stare upwards, but it was something. My embered wings beat nearly noiselessly as I shot downwards. Pale, but barred forelegs stretched out before me as I tried to make my body as aerodynamic as possible. My goal was to come straight at him, to land a few strides out, and use my accumulated momentum to crash into his shoulder. My wings and feathers worked seamlessly to adjust my movements, as my sea-green gaze focused solely on the Warden. If he moved, I would try to as well.
Truth be told, I didn't know what to expect. Would he run? Leap at me? Did he have magic of his own? Would he just take to the air and avoid me all together? It was too late to assemble answers to these questions - I was going too fast now. I had to follow through.
I felt my hooves strike the bloody sands at an angle, so that I was running just as much as I was flying. Within a stride my body weight settled back to the earth, and my wings folded against my flanks so that they would not be injured. I tried to ram my left shoulder into his own. I could feel my breaths coming hot and fast, as the sound of blood thundered in my ears.
I sent up a silent prayer as I braced for impact, fighting the urge to close my eyes. Here goes nothing..
WC: 647
Attack: 1/3
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they knew it was rough, but tough luck [rhoa spar]
