OH, TO BE HERE ON THE GROUND
He can see them both on his horns.
Good warriors don’t need to use their horns. (But they have them for a reason—)
Both so arrogant. Arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, the lot of them, the fucking Pegasi, always, even to each other, the way they sneer and snort and twist their words like knives in the ribs of their own kind (and his kind.)
The filly hesitates but is the first to get going, stupid little girl, that’s right, and the black stallion with too many wings - two was too many but four, who the fuck do you think you are, honestly - trots after her.
Toro could just wring their necks.
He catches up to them, he cannot be last, no, he’s always fucking last with these winged motherfuckers, always, always, don’t do this to me, you pieces of shit-
Words. Okay, listen. Words words words. So meaningless, and jumbled, and full of misplaced pride, born-with pride, never needed to be earned like his and yet he loses anyway- but there’s a question in there, just listen a moment, really listen.
”El Toro,” he says, because a matador ought to know the name of the bull putting its horn through his gut.
@Elif @Caine
"What I say,"
What I think,
