The bodies that formulated across the banks of Courant’s destruction wrecked his body, sent gags through his lips in despair. The world around him was a vast expanse of turmoil, of rotting flesh and decomposing. His breath escapes in swollen pants, eyes keeping firmly ahead as he wades through the rushing waters, flinching every time something touched him from beneath the currents, his body pivoting to a different position. His slim cavity shuddered and pulsed, heart pounding against thick walls of flesh and bone. He had to escape. Oh, he had to get out of this hole in which bodies were carelessly falling into. Their eyes were darkened pits, a pool of liquid that would soon dissolve. He was probably walking through the blood and body parts of others- his eyes growing wild as he discovers such a thing, his tail rounding to his flank and his legs stumbling beneath him. They formed walls around him, the deceased, and all he wanted to do was scream, to let a high pitched screech explode from his vocals.
He had seen dead bodies before –hell, he had drunk them- but not like this, were they were sunken and withered.
He pants rapidly, eyes diverting themselves from the dead, searching for a piece of dry land that was at least faintly visible. It was to no prevail, for Courant had swallowed the lands and all they were worth, sucking them into a black hole of bereavement and obliteration. In the distance he saw Broken Dreams, and he took a few steps backwards. He was quite frightened of the stallion whom had called him abomination, as well as how his father had grown so aggravated when he hardly even produced a frown. His eyes drink in the ghastly image, his nostrils quivering at the foul stench, and he finds his eyes widening, his feet drawing him forwards. He snaps his skull round to the other horse, Broken Dreams, and knows he only has one way of escaping this mess while his father was trying to save the few last survivors.
With a shudder he swathed forward through the water, breathing in deeply and trying to regain his composure. He was a young Prince, after all, in the battle to be the heir to the thrown. With a light, childish wicker he moves towards the stallion who only just spoke. “Y-yes?” He speaks hesitantly, not too sure about the stallion who didn’t seem to like him in the first place. He held a small bout of resentment at the thought that he hardly even knew the stallion before he was making judgements about him. He was almost frightened of him, and so taking a small step back he sent out a signal to his father telling him to stay nearby. He may have been young, but he was not stupid.
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