Common

Panzer emerged from the cold surf, the salt heavy on his thick feathered hooves as he stepped, sandy and sullen from the sea. A sharp wind whipped through his thick, knotted mane and a distant group of gulls shrieked overhead, scanning for scraps of clams or other small, pitiful creatures that had not yet been ripped clean from their shells. He snorted the ocean scent from his nose, and craned his thick neck to see another stallion charging up the beach toward him.

He flattened his ears, keeping his dark, unfaltering eyes locked onto him. He did not so much as twitch a single muscle at the incoming stranger. Instead he stood unmoving, a wall of bricks mortared with the remnants of cracked bones turned to dust and paste by the tears of those who mourned them. Panzer blinked through a narrow glare as this stallion’s hot, stinking breath parted his black forelock, his words leaving flecks of saliva on his face.

You look like you’re on a mission. He had no idea.

Then he pinched his shoulder with his teeth, grinned like a dingo and barked another statement at the bay roan—this time, proclaiming he would be part of his band. Panzer did not lift his ears from the tangle of mane on his neck, nor did his gaze soften as his black eyes trailed his movements. Cullen may as well have pissed on a boulder. And if he wanted to drag it home to keep as part of his rock collection, so be it.

When Panzer did move, his steps were slow and intentional; as he walked past the gold-painted stranger, he deliberately knocked against him, clipping his shoulder and then his haunches with his own. He lifted his ears from his neck slightly, keeping them pointed toward the other stallion, the only subtle indication of tolerance he would give.


PANZER