REAL BOY, I'VE GOT BLOOD INSIDE MY VEINS
El Toro had been taken down a notch.
It wasn’t something he would ever acknowledge, nor was it bound to last, but the wrinkling scar on his flank and the shuddering lung clung to him like the stench of manure. The rage that had burned through the very end of the battle had sputtered out with the drowning wick. He couldn’t breathe or walk properly (or without spurting blood) for a good while after that fight, and even now there was no running too fast or talking too loud or really doing anything he was prone to. To be frank, it was fucking depressing.
He’d met that starlit mare up in the mountains, and stayed out of Solterra’s reach for a good stretch while he healed. Toro had next to no ties in his home court, and yet, he felt like a defeated warrior, shamefully returning home with no victory, brethren dead on the battlefield. It was truly quite unfortunate.
So, after this brief absence, it was with great surprise that El Toro clambered over a final cresting mountain, only to see the desert blanketed in white. A chill wind carried his tails high. I don’t like this. As swiftly as he could (with the bleeding, wheezing, et cetera), the pale stallion made his way through the snow to the capital. Perhaps he’d gotten lost here or there, everything did look the same, you know, especially now, but he made it and when he did…it was also covered in snow. Surprise. Some were panicked, others pranced about, threw snowballs and more than once grabbed at his hide, only to realize it did not belong to the false winter. It didn’t seem right, he knew it wasn’t right, but he had no one to ask and was feeling too sorry to consult a stranger. The fair stallion simply wandered and waited.
It was during one particular bout of wandering that a golden light came to illuminate the world around, accompanied by a boyish voice that boomed throughout the alleyways. El Toro approached, tentatively; before him rose a golden stallion, though something about him lacked the feeling of horse-ness, mortality, maybe, and there, mouthing off, was a dark equine that certainly seemed too pale to be this sun’s shadow. Toro said, without conviction or his characteristic confusion, ”Does this sort of thing usually happen?”
beats
"What I say,"
What I think,
It wasn’t something he would ever acknowledge, nor was it bound to last, but the wrinkling scar on his flank and the shuddering lung clung to him like the stench of manure. The rage that had burned through the very end of the battle had sputtered out with the drowning wick. He couldn’t breathe or walk properly (or without spurting blood) for a good while after that fight, and even now there was no running too fast or talking too loud or really doing anything he was prone to. To be frank, it was fucking depressing.
He’d met that starlit mare up in the mountains, and stayed out of Solterra’s reach for a good stretch while he healed. Toro had next to no ties in his home court, and yet, he felt like a defeated warrior, shamefully returning home with no victory, brethren dead on the battlefield. It was truly quite unfortunate.
So, after this brief absence, it was with great surprise that El Toro clambered over a final cresting mountain, only to see the desert blanketed in white. A chill wind carried his tails high. I don’t like this. As swiftly as he could (with the bleeding, wheezing, et cetera), the pale stallion made his way through the snow to the capital. Perhaps he’d gotten lost here or there, everything did look the same, you know, especially now, but he made it and when he did…it was also covered in snow. Surprise. Some were panicked, others pranced about, threw snowballs and more than once grabbed at his hide, only to realize it did not belong to the false winter. It didn’t seem right, he knew it wasn’t right, but he had no one to ask and was feeling too sorry to consult a stranger. The fair stallion simply wandered and waited.
It was during one particular bout of wandering that a golden light came to illuminate the world around, accompanied by a boyish voice that boomed throughout the alleyways. El Toro approached, tentatively; before him rose a golden stallion, though something about him lacked the feeling of horse-ness, mortality, maybe, and there, mouthing off, was a dark equine that certainly seemed too pale to be this sun’s shadow. Toro said, without conviction or his characteristic confusion, ”Does this sort of thing usually happen?”
beats
"What I say,"
What I think,
