THE HARUSPEX
on his own

Later, when they were all resting in the shade of some unfamiliar copse of trees, Ashamin's first companion would call it trauma. Lochan would paint the word for his bonded in deep and impenetrable blacks while Rakt rested with his eyes half open. The younger companion's snort would be followed by a shake, a subtle shift in body language to signal disagreement. Ashamin would pace and contemplate new loneliness--the concept of abandonment. He too would shake his head, turn from the idea. Trauma meant damage. How could he, by then newly wedded to no one but himself, be damaged? What was he to do if he had to enter his new life that way?

In the moment, in the heat of the battle and raging sun, Ashamin took damage to be strength. The bird--now obviously revealed to be a companion as he staged an attack--was not quick enough to catch Ashamin's red cerndyr companion. Rakt leapt back and shook his antlered crown defensively, continuing to back away even when the bird headed instead for a nearby tree. Ashamin's opponent moved away from him too, gasping horribly as his heart convulsed; the Clovenheart watched with grim satisfaction. He ground his against each other as he staggered from the other buck's pearly horn. His head dropped down swiftly to tuck between his forelegs, but he still felt the burn of success. Blood ran freely from the gash along Ashamin's croup, following the path of his right hip and warming the inside of his leg on the same side. The pain would last and the wound would slow him down, but he wasn't going to give up.

The painted stag flashed his gaze and then his head up as he heard his opponent's hooves kicking up the sand again. This time he had enough sense to dodge and fight back with his body, slowed as it might already be by injury. The paint stallion took a few more forceful steps forward, hoping to put himself on the enemy's left side and facing away, just as he'd tried to do before. One of the amulets around his neck was tugged back behind him and slowed his movement forward, however. The set gem was quick enough to catch something that Ashamin had missed: magic. It glowed and hummed something hollow before thudding dully against his chest, leaving a cold spot of shadow that the light of his marking could not pass through. Whatever power the bay stallion held was now something the Clovenheart possessed, if only for a time.

But he would have to discover its effects later, for once the amulet settled back against his chest Ashamin pressed onward. His hooves sank in the sand and his wounded croup sagged so that his back sloped downwards, and his hind legs were forced to bunch. The lowering of his back half did him some good, though, and positioned him beneath the snapping teeth of the mad beast that had charged him. Given half a second to reflect, Ashamin might have paid closer attention to his opponent's erratic movements and total lack of experience. Maybe, just maybe, he would have attributed it to some cause or weakness rather than attacking without the slightest shred of empathy.

The Clovenheart was not, however, given any time at all. And so when he struck it was without mercy or shame but only with the most of his power and the height of his cruelty. With the mask still surrounding his features he twisted his neck back and to the left, his jaws parting and snapping hopefully somewhere between the young bay's withers and crest. Behind him, Lochan and Rakt operated together; the former darted for the tree where the bird had flown to rest and cast dark mists towards it, hoping to confuse the already compromised red kite so that he might fall from the tree that Rakt butted fiercely with his horns. Eight sharp hooves awaited the bird should it be grounded, ready to stomp and trample. In any other context they might have been bullies, but this was a fight and the kite had made the mistake of trying to harm the younger cerndyr; for that, he would be targeted.

What did "spar" mean to the Clovenheart anymore? He was under the heat of a sun that nearly belonged to the Dragon's Throat and far from his home--far from those who might have urged him to exercise restraint. Here--in the unfamiliar wild where the sand was caught in his hooves and Birdsong sweat mixed readily with blood, where his companions' thick coats stuck out like thorned paws--Ashamin was not operating within the same set of rules he'd been previously assigned.

Out here, Ashamin was anonymous. He was just another passing stranger with a very nasty bite.

""