e n c a n t a d o r
The swim is a blur in time, and his jaw is set and stubborn, his dark eyes focused solemnly on the horizon as they trek. Never once does he turn to check on her prowess; in fact, he may as well have forgotten that he has company, and perhaps he has. It's clear his mind is elsewhere, his gut relentlessly taut as his muscles work automatically without rationality to guide them.
But eventually they arrive, and Encantador's sopping black tail is trailing on the ground, becoming caked in sand and dirt. He does not even stop to shake the wetness from his body; he knows the hot desert sun will rob him of that soon enough. Taking a few steps further inland in the direction of the dunes, he at last pauses, snorting saltwater from his nostrils, and cranes his neck to finally check on the mare he's brought with him.
"Your name?" he asks in a low monotone, before suddenly erupting into a brisk trot and lifting his tail to carry it high in the arid air. He jerks his head in a circle to indicate that she should follow.
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
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