When Caleb came running forward with his head lowered, Ashamin immediately feared for the stallion's judgment. He recognized the eagerness, he had it in himself, but when paired with such a reckless lack of care for one's sparring partner is was troublesome. The lowering of the head, the visible insistence of Caleb's horn reaching out to pierce the haruspex's delicate chest, was a clear threat.

Luckily, the haruspex was no slow fool, anymore. He had learned from the mistakes he had made with Torleik and Zandora; he would do his best to counter Caleb's bulk with the agility his smaller frame afforded him, and he would do his best to minimize the blood shed on this snowy ground. With deftness, Ashamin dodged the worst of the soldier's blade, peeling away to Caleb's left. Ashamin propelled himself forth on heritage. The painted buck was a quick beast, he always had been, and with the breeds and bloodlines coursing through him he had what it took to run forward and away from the worst of the attack.

But the haruspex had not calculated for the snow. It clogged his hooves, filling their gaps and numbing them, and he cringed with every landing of the stride in his canter. Why hadn't he thought of that? He cursed himself, the deprecation coming at the precise moment of Caleb's strike. Even off the mark, that horn had a way of stinging.

Ashamin felt its curved tip pluck his side, and as he ran the soldier's weapon dragged a thin line across his two-toned flank. It was only a rear that saved him--that lowered his haunches as he stopped short and strove for angled balance, that broke the horn's delicate line. The cut was shallow and somewhat numbed by the cool brushing of Caleb's dark feathers against Ashamin's side; it was just barely dotted with blood in some places, but still it made the haruspex's hide twitch and shudder.  

But there was no time to dwell on the pain. This was still a spar, and it was a proving grounds for Caleb in some ways. Ashamin focused his weight, leaning to his left and churning his forelegs. Down he struck with those numbed hooves, snow falling from them in clumps, heat surging through his body. The two white daggers aimed for Caleb's croup and spine, falling like icicles on the first Birdsong morning.

With every attempted strike, the Haruspex wondered about the event unfolding beneath and around him. Yet again, he had found himself sparring a herdmate. And for what? Ashamin watched the scene as if he had the time to, extended his long tail for balance, and almost lazily considered the circumstances. This spar didn't need to be happening, Thranduil had approved of Caleb already. So what was it for, then? Was this Caleb's will, or Ashamin's?  

Which one of them had been driven by ambition or pride? Caleb perhaps felt the need to prove himself, but did Ashamin seek any such reward? Maybe it was just practice, for the haruspex. Maybe he just wanted to learn. He could sense Lochan at his back, watching the scene. Was it for Lochan to learn?

Someday, the cerndyr would be old enough to fight. Ashamin wasn't sure how attached he was to the idea, but he knew in the end it wasn't his choice. The question became, then, what would the little eye decide?

 
Word Count: 570
Post Count: 1/3  
Summary: Ashamin runs to his right, Caleb's left, to avoid the attack. He is slowed by the snow and still catches some of the horn on his left flank, but rears to reposition himself and avoid the tail end of the attack. While in a rear, he tries to bring his forehooves down on Caleb's croup/the end of his back/spine area.
Notes: Sorry for the wait!

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ASHAMIN