e n c a n t a d o r
The high of victory has ebbed away with the fading light of dusk, and now, as Encantador limps further inland to the main oasis from his chance meeting with Badr, exhaustion begins to take him. His eyelids are drooping, his head hanging low as he shuffles awkwardly across the dimly-lit sands, and his body positively aches. Though no blood had – thankfully – been drawn during his scuffle with Mafioso, he almost wishes it had been. The sharp stinging of a flesh wound he could tolerate more easily than the dull agony of internal injury, or so he likes to believe.
He’s almost asleep on his feet when he finally arrives, so it takes him longer than it should to notice that he, yet again, is not alone. This time, however, the company is not potentially threatening, and he cannot help it – he smiles feebly when he meets El Aran’s dark eyes. “I got into some trouble,” he murmurs hoarsely as he stands with his left hind leg cocked.
six-year-old stallion of the desert; son of el barroco and writhe
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