e n c a n t a d o r
At first, he thinks it is El Aran. The dark, lithe form sprawled awkwardly in the sand sends a knife of fear through him, and he doesn’t hesitate in racing across the dusty plain with his hooves slipping and sliding on the uneven terrain beneath him to reach her.
But then he realizes. Where his lead mare’s coat is night-black, this one’s has faded to a burnt brown. Where his lead mare’s body is muscular and strong, this one is skinny and spent. And too tall, he guesses as he stands over the body with his head tilted in concern, though it is hard to tell with the stranger on the ground. Definitely male, though.
He stands there for long moments while he catches his breath and decides what to do with the creature.
Eventually he steps closer and gently nudges the bony black stallion with his muzzle. The stranger is so thin that Canta is worried he might break if handled roughly, so he pulls away without a second attempt at physically rousing the male, his hanging hanging low and ears pricked as he watches the body for signs of life.
”Hello? Anyone in there?”
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
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