e n c a n t a d o r
Exhausted from day after day of sleepless nights and haunting nightmares, Encantador leans against the cool, solid slate of the boulder that overlooks the oasis like a small fort, its base half-buried in sand. Here at least there is some shelter from the relentless summer sun, but even still, the dunskin stallion cannot get comfortable. He lingers on the threshold of consciousness, his skin twitching irritably from the contact of pests and his faintly-striped legs aching as they dutifully keep him upright.
The sound of voices slowly invades his brain, growing louder and more discernible by the moment. Soon enough, Canta's brown eyes are wide open and his ears perked as he eavesdrops on the conversation at hand. El Aran, he thinks, but the owner of the second voice is unknown to him. There is some splashing, and he imagines his lead mare wading into the oasis, her black pelt gleaming with moisture. It's but a second later that he emerges from behind the boulder to reveal himself, driven by curiosity. He eyes the bay mare, particularly her strange, cloudy eyes, and clears his throat.
"Afternoon."
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
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