I THINK IT'S TIME THAT
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
Beneath the Solterran sun, a figure moved at an unsteady trot -- emaciated, with sweat gleaming over his heaving ribs, with makeshift saddlebags thrown across his haunches that he’d stolen from some poor Solterran’s porch on his way to the Oasis. He is a man on a mission, ears pinned back along his neck, teeth bared into a snarl with every step he takes -- he will fight his way through every guard in the Oasis, if he must, if that is required to get the supplies he and Sam will need in their flight to Delumine.
He had never thought he would be a refugee sent fleeing -- had always imagined he would die fighting, if that was what it took, his pride too stubborn to accept being run off -- except now he has something that is not himself to live for.
His hooves beat out Jet-sam, Jet-sam on the packed sand beneath him as he slows into a trot, eyes narrowed and mouth set into a harsh line when he faces his first obstacle -- a familiar man that he cannot place -- except that he can see the empty water packs slung across the man’s back, and it forces a harsh, rasping bark of laughter from his chest.
“I’m not here to fight you,” and oh, how strange it is that his blood does not sing for war, that he is merely exhausted at the thought of yet more violence. You don’t have time for this, the voice whispers to him, and for once he agrees -- he pivots, suddenly, so that his good eye can face towards the Oasis while still keeping Eik within his field of vision, and his hoof stomps the ground impatiently.
“Are you going to help, or are you going to get the fuck out of my way?”
He had never thought he would be a refugee sent fleeing -- had always imagined he would die fighting, if that was what it took, his pride too stubborn to accept being run off -- except now he has something that is not himself to live for.
His hooves beat out Jet-sam, Jet-sam on the packed sand beneath him as he slows into a trot, eyes narrowed and mouth set into a harsh line when he faces his first obstacle -- a familiar man that he cannot place -- except that he can see the empty water packs slung across the man’s back, and it forces a harsh, rasping bark of laughter from his chest.
“I’m not here to fight you,” and oh, how strange it is that his blood does not sing for war, that he is merely exhausted at the thought of yet more violence. You don’t have time for this, the voice whispers to him, and for once he agrees -- he pivots, suddenly, so that his good eye can face towards the Oasis while still keeping Eik within his field of vision, and his hoof stomps the ground impatiently.
“Are you going to help, or are you going to get the fuck out of my way?”
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