for tonight I am the starving lion, tonight you are the bleeding lamb
He’s running, running, charging desperately through the sands with only the hope that today is not his last. Blood and sand mars his vision but and all he can hear is sand on scales and blood in veins but then there is a disruption, a pause, and a hiss. El Toro glances over his shoulder to see Seraphina hanging on to the beast for dear life. He turns on a dime, somehow, some way, sand flying behind him. It lifts from the ground to curl back towards the mare, momentarily slowed, jaws wide open in some accursed cry. Instead of climbing into the creature’s maw he slips under it - for all his bulk, he carries his mother’s bones and dancing form - and shoves his horn through its throat.
Blood spurts out and some ungodly noise peals out from the splitting airways; El Toro wrenches his head upwards and there is more blood than he has ever seen at once spraying from this great wound. He feels its muscles relax as death claims the wyrm for itself.
Oh no.
The bull feels its weight pressing down on his bloodied horn and it takes everything he has left to wriggle out of its gore and stumble onto the sand before the sandwyrm collapses (for it was never so far from the ground to begin with), a cloud of dust accompanying its demise. Toro’s chest heaves, blood dripping from his horns and sliding down his skull, but he looks for Seraphina, darting towards her when she is spotted - the adrenaline will keep the evening’s soreness away, if for but a moment - panting, ”Are you alright?”
@
"What I say,"
What I think,
