His blood ran hot. He was livid. Steam rushed from his nostrils with every exhale, smoke off the wavering desert sand sucked through every inhale. His hooves would have stamped had they not sunk into the ground with every step, threating to pull him into some ancient crypt. He would have liked that. There would be no one but the skeletons to piss him off. His tails slapped against his flanks, as if swatting away flies. Flies that could have been scapegoats for his irritation, but he was too far into the dunes to encounter even that. A crunch startled the stallion; looking down, he found a small scorpion had been crushed beneath his mighty hoof. He found no pleasure in it, only disgust.
El Toro's source of anger was miles away now, and yet, it had accompanied him every step from it. He'd found some overgrown winged colt to knock down a peg - to prideful, those boys were - and he had, only, the kid had used some inane magic to singe Toro's rump following his defeat. Many of the fillies were too young to interest him, but there was one - the colt's older sister, he thought - and she was pretty enough to send the stallion reeling at the colt's indiscretion. His mercurial sense of honor was too great to turn on the colt - he was a child, anyway, and had already suffered defeat - but Toro let out a scream and charged the arrogant spaw, making a fool of himself for even humoring a child, a boy! His friends had laughed, the fillies tittered and that young mare smirked and walked off with them. He heard an "Old man!" called over their shoulders. He could gore them if he wanted!
He didn't want to.
But he could.
He didn't, anyway, and instead had gone stomping off into the desert - a bad idea, if he paused to think he might realize he'd lost his way (again) - and if out of both rage and idiocy, he had done so under the midday sun. Its rays scorched his skin - he was not made for this star's light - but he attributed the searing sensation to hatred incarnate on his flesh. He'd regret this, if he ever got back home.
El Toro's source of anger was miles away now, and yet, it had accompanied him every step from it. He'd found some overgrown winged colt to knock down a peg - to prideful, those boys were - and he had, only, the kid had used some inane magic to singe Toro's rump following his defeat. Many of the fillies were too young to interest him, but there was one - the colt's older sister, he thought - and she was pretty enough to send the stallion reeling at the colt's indiscretion. His mercurial sense of honor was too great to turn on the colt - he was a child, anyway, and had already suffered defeat - but Toro let out a scream and charged the arrogant spaw, making a fool of himself for even humoring a child, a boy! His friends had laughed, the fillies tittered and that young mare smirked and walked off with them. He heard an "Old man!" called over their shoulders. He could gore them if he wanted!
He didn't want to.
But he could.
He didn't, anyway, and instead had gone stomping off into the desert - a bad idea, if he paused to think he might realize he'd lost his way (again) - and if out of both rage and idiocy, he had done so under the midday sun. Its rays scorched his skin - he was not made for this star's light - but he attributed the searing sensation to hatred incarnate on his flesh. He'd regret this, if he ever got back home.
