The Solonia had been harrowing, and her mood had been sorely soured after losing the first round. No Nemain could lose a spar without having some shame cast upon them, they were meant to be the war-mongers of the Roanne. The Nemain and the Badb together representing all that is fierce and cruel under the waves. They are the ones who looks seals in the eyes, and have them sacrifice themselves without question. Their blood brings them all swimming, and for that they are chosen. For that, Saoirse had been chosen.
Perhaps she was better off attacking a creature of stone, one whose sentience was severely lacking. One who would not strike back. Much like the dummies they had the Cruite practice their first strikes against. She blamed it on the surroundings. She was a creature of the sea, and fought as such. At a disadvantage on the land. That was why she had lost, she told herself, eager for any excuse to preserve her broken ego. Perhaps it was time to start training on land as well.
She walked quietly around the statue, examining the crack made by the first colt. It is a strange statue, with eyes that light up the delicately carved face. She stops at its shoulder, turning, and giving a sharp, but altogether half hearted kick, just to see how delicate the stone really is. Afterall, if a pebble could crack it, it mustn’t be all that strong.
