Thankfully, Lochan dutifully obeyed his bonded's command and settled some ways away, peering out from behind a tree. And thankfully, too, this young soldier (or simply passionate tree-stabber) knew the value of respect. Ashamin remembered Rikyn's snide remarks all too well, and he was glad that at least one of the herd's younger members knew to respect those above them.

Then again, he wasn't sure he liked having such thoughts. Since when had he become above anyone? He knew his rank demanded respect, but did he? After all, with only one failed mirror reading under his ceremonial belt, what had he really done for his herd? And though the wounds had healed, he could not forget how Rikyn had thrown him down so readily into the mad mix of mud and blood. That spar had been solid proof that Ashamin still had much to learn, as far as fighting was concerned, and it had been a lesson in humility as well.

Still, Ashamin had hoped that spar would have humbled the racist upstart, instead.

Ashamin tried to shake the thoughts with his body. He lifted his red foreleg and let his hoof hang loose by the hock before placing it back in the mist and on the earth. He had to relax and stretch away the aches and pains of battle. This youth, Zunden, was apparently endowed with deference and bravery. He could distract himself with a casual spar and forget, for a moment, that an unknown god had nearly killed him and a herdmate had embarrassed him right on his own doorstep.

But maybe such humble virtue would serve Ashamin well. For when speech faded into action and Zunden darted forward, Ashamin was more careful and alert than ever before. He watched her colorful eyes, looking to the right, but shifted his gaze then to the angle of her back. No, he wouldn't fall for that trick.

After so many failures, he was finally wising up.

And with a rush of speed that outmatched his young challenger's, Ashamin ran delicately to his own right. He watched her charge into empty air and stopped short to make a quarter turn and swing his hindquarters right, so that he might face her left at a vague 90 degrees. He was faster than her, to be sure, and he could thank his lighter bloodlines for that. But though the Haruspex may have had the slightest bit of height on the young mare, he lacked any strength to hold against hers. Should he get too close, he knew he'd be in for a beating. His fights with Torleik and Rikyn had taught Ashamin to keep his distance, lest he wish to be mercilessly stabbed, and the similarity that Zunden's horns bore to those of the Bloodskald were not lost on the haruspex.

But he would do better, this time. Ashamin let his turn carry him as if his feet were hovering over the ground--felt his heart beating loud and electric in his ears, felt blood flow readily to every tensing muscle. His neck bent and his legs carried him closer to the mare with the barbed wire mark. He could do this, he just needed to breathe. He needed to breathe and get just a little closer, close enough that he could reach her and then pull away.

And so he brought himself a few quick steps closer to Zunden, reached out with flashing teeth to snap at her withers, and let his part in the spar begin.