The earth beneath them was deep going. Heavy rain slicked the Clovenheart’s hide as the storm picked up and began to penetrate the canopy that he’d hoped would provide better shelter. Luckily, Ashamin didn’t mind the rain. Later though, when wounds peppered his hide and the skies were clear, he’d wish they’d sparred on a sunnier day.

In the moment, however, Ashamin had little time to contemplate the weather. He was aware of his surroundings—for he knew this was crucial—but he was not concerned by them. The stallion had fought in far worse conditions and had scars to prove it. After fighting Rikyn on similarly slippery turf and sparring Erebos in denser woods, Ashamin had some handle on how to approach the situation. Looking over Seanan, it appeared their environment would be in the Clovenheart’s favor. The white stallion looked as if he had the hot blood of a long distance runner, whereas the painted stag boasted superior nimbleness and strength. In these tight quarters where Ashamin had spent much of his time, it would be much easier for him to make quick turns and hard hits. These differences in their builds, combined with the additional eyes of Lochan and Rakt watching Seanan’s every move, stacked the odds heavily in the paint’s favor.

Were their competition anything more than a friendly one meant to teach, the Clovenheart would have smiled at that. As it were, however, he tried to focus on learning. Surely with a form as sharp and thin as that, Seanan fought uniquely. Ashamin was eager to see what he could pick up from his opponent’s movements—was already wondering how he could apply his observations to future spars. With any luck, Seanan might come out of their encounter thinking similarly. Ashamin’s motives for initiating the spar hadn’t been entirely selfish after all; he hoped he could open the pale stallion’s mind.

As wonderful as thoughts of knowledge and triumph were, however, they proved to be detrimental distractions. Though Ashamin saw Seanan begin to pivot, he was not focused enough to think beyond that, and Lochan and Rakt were not yet prepared. With both Cerndyr unable to offer Ashamin any tactical advice and only just positioning themselves (Rakt to the left and further away, Lochan closer and by Ashamin’s right,) the Clovenheart had only his own eyes.

What he saw was Seanan turning away and then sliding, perhaps unintentionally, as mud splashed and stained. What he saw was an opportunity to attack the white stallion when vulnerable and avoid the swinging hind, and so he began to move just barely forward and hopefully towards Seanan’s right. Only, he had seen everything wrong.

Before Ashamin was even close to his intended target he realized his mistake. The problem was it was too late to clear himself entirely of the rising legs by moving backwards, and a sturdy tree prevented him from continuing forth. With a grunt of frustration, the Clovenheart resigned himself to some injury and hoped that Seanan’s seemingly poorly-controlled movement would do little damage.

The painted buck began to move backwards as quickly as possible, shuffling on hind hooves that slipped and afforded him little purchase. What he attempted next couldn’t be called a rear, but maybe incredibly sloppy mezair—the kind that only those with no training in fighting would perform. Had Ashamin been facing his father, he would have been ashamed. As it were he was only thankful that he succeeded at all, for the small amount that he had managed to lift his forehand was enough to save his skull.

The whites of his eyes shown wild as Seanan’s hooves made purchase, first one and then the other striking Ashamin’s right forearm. They cut surprisingly deep, as if the rain had sharpened them to knife points, and the second that the blood burst from the two cuts (so close they were almost one) white electricity exploded forth. He could do nothing but focus on landing and getting away from Seanan; attacking was not a priority.

When he’d shuffled further back on his hindquarters and managed to get three uninjured legs on the ground, his head and necklace first hung low. Blood flowed down his leg and pooled into paint, staining his white right fore-hoof and leg so that they his marked left. When he tossed up his gaze it was filled with the same electricity that burst from his cuts and buzzed beneath them in an attempt to quickly repair the bruises they hid. Ashamin allowed one more second to pass before utilizing magic and commanding Lochan to do the same. Dark mists flowed from Lochan’s antlers and turned the raindrops ashen, and Ashamin attempted to force Seanan’s heart to quicken.

The mischief in Seanan’s eyes? Ashamin considered it managed.

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