After the many fights Nyimara had picked over the seasons with the Ridge residents, Faolain had grown accustomed to watching the shore with a keen eye for any silver-haired outsiders. Although Nyimara herself was persistent, it seemed that no other foes of the Ridge were interested in returning for seconds. Faolain was not a cruel combatant by any means, but she was efficient, save the few times the silver bay had beaten her. Faolain might not have been cruel, by Nyimara certainly was, and Faolain was reaching a point in her life where she was warming to the idea that maybe cruelty had a time and a place.

Not that it had mattered in her most recent interaction.

Faolain knew that part of her failure was due to her pregnancy. She had to balance ferocious protectiveness with an uncharacteristic caution in that fight, and the two were extremes of a spectrum that wrought havoc in the black mare. It was like a tug-of-war, and each in turn had slipped, giving the other more ground than was useful. It had caused her to falter when she should have pressed forward, and to rush ahead in fury when she should have been patient for an opening. Her memories of the battle were long and arduous, but the event had actually been very brief. He had stormed the beach with purpose, batted Faolain aside, and retreated with his prize.

Faolain was so loath to admit the similarities she shared with Tyr that she almost managed not to think of them at all. But after the battle was done, Faolain could not help but to compare them. In the heat of battle, the shire stallion’s sheer size and strength overshadowed all else; but as he drove Roisin wordlessly into the sea, Faolain was forced to confront the uncomfortable thought. Beyond whatever motive Tyr held for his challenge - Faolain could not conceive of it being an honorable one - his actions were almost a mirror image of her own. They were silent, straightforward, efficient, and impassive of face and of voice when any words were necessary. At least, that might have been the case if Faolain had not been plagued with pregnancy hormones, something she had never experienced.

In the end, she knew her condition played a very small part in her failure. She did not know if it was a comforting thought that she would have certainly lost at any other time as well. She was just so… small. It made her feel weak to think about, and guilty that this battle had been wholly out of her control, and it also made her furious. More furious than any other time of her life, save for Cullen’s violent departure from the Ridge.

It was because of this inner turmoil of emotions that at first she thought Tyr had returned to finish her off, just because he could. From where she paced along the beach, she caught sight of him from a fair distance, pale mane gleaming under the sun as the waves tousled it around his massive frame. Faolain froze, not quite afraid, mostly angry and confused. She could not think of any other reason he would return, and so slowly she warmed with her anger, and stood waiting for him approach.

As the sea deposited him into the sand before her, Faolain’s ears swept back into her still-tousled mane. Rivaini had not even gotten the chance to check her over yet, but Faolain also wasn’t sure how long she had paced the shore, unable to face the Ridge’s residents - especially Siobhan - after her defeat. She remained as still as stone as Tyr called, and Faolain realized she had backed into the shadows of the jungle where it crept up to the sand.

The black mare stepped forward with her head lowered, like a stalking cat, ready to be tossed aside once again. She would do better this time, she thought. She would have more control, and more speed, and more understanding of how to harness her consuming rage. She might not win, but she would at least make it hurt.

Then, Tyr spoke, and she slowed, one foreleg raised mid-step, a few inches above the sand. Her ears did not emerge from her mane, but her deep copper eyes slid from the taught tendons of his legs up to his face. She said nothing, only watched him, her hoof still poised to finish her stride like a hunting animal who has been spotted by its prey. Slowly, she lowered it until it pressed silently into the sand, and adjusted her stance so that she stood collected in front of him. His words had thrown her off, but curiosity got the better of her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say. It wasn’t like she could punish him to any notable degree even if she wanted to, anyway.

Faolain’s head gave a single sharp nod for him to speak.