Falls
Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.
Posted on May 6, 2020 at 05:52:35 PM by VERCINGETORIX
he who dons his armor rides first into battle
he who rides first into battle falls with pride
he who rides first into battle falls with pride
VERCINGETORIX
The boy is broken, crumbling to the ground like a dying bird.
Tenderly, Vercingetorix pities him, feels that there is something amiss about him. There was something that had shattered and cracked within him, his words spitting anger towards the two of them, and the black painted mare acting as a warden to his sanity. Watching, the red stallion cannot know the ways of these sand snakes, these serpents in horse clothing that spit with venom at each other, leaving him to be the wary watcher.
“He can barely stand.” He flatly tells the woman, as she tempts him like a trickster, bidding him to end the suffering of the boy when only moments ago she had told him not to touch the boy.
The red once-king is no murderer, and he looks scornfully at the woman as she bids him prove to the gods- the wrong gods- that he ought to survive the sickness while the boy is left to rot. No, she knew nothing of his gods, whatever sick desert witches she listened to had no bearing over him.
The tests bestowed upon him by his great gods were to prove valor and morality, and to fall on the wrong side of the scale meant to die and live the forever life in a cold, icy hell.
Another glance to the stallion, he eyes the fallen form and assesses the stranger. He is no threat, he can barely stand. His body has failed him, as he has starved it of its strength. “You know nothing of my gods.” The dun tells her, now turning his great red head back to her and twisting his body, turning his haunches to the fallen stallion and facing her head on, leaving a comfortable gap between all their bodies. “I was told snakes have sinister voices- I never thought they would wear the skin of a horse.”
He has no fear of the sickly stallion- certainly if he is bound for death, then it would take him shortly. There was no point in quickening his end- and yet, there was always a chance for salvation; were the boy to be protected from the wickedness of others. Such as the black and white woman that all but flicked her forked tongue and tried to get him to do her bidding.
Tenderly, Vercingetorix pities him, feels that there is something amiss about him. There was something that had shattered and cracked within him, his words spitting anger towards the two of them, and the black painted mare acting as a warden to his sanity. Watching, the red stallion cannot know the ways of these sand snakes, these serpents in horse clothing that spit with venom at each other, leaving him to be the wary watcher.
“He can barely stand.” He flatly tells the woman, as she tempts him like a trickster, bidding him to end the suffering of the boy when only moments ago she had told him not to touch the boy.
The red once-king is no murderer, and he looks scornfully at the woman as she bids him prove to the gods- the wrong gods- that he ought to survive the sickness while the boy is left to rot. No, she knew nothing of his gods, whatever sick desert witches she listened to had no bearing over him.
The tests bestowed upon him by his great gods were to prove valor and morality, and to fall on the wrong side of the scale meant to die and live the forever life in a cold, icy hell.
Another glance to the stallion, he eyes the fallen form and assesses the stranger. He is no threat, he can barely stand. His body has failed him, as he has starved it of its strength. “You know nothing of my gods.” The dun tells her, now turning his great red head back to her and twisting his body, turning his haunches to the fallen stallion and facing her head on, leaving a comfortable gap between all their bodies. “I was told snakes have sinister voices- I never thought they would wear the skin of a horse.”
He has no fear of the sickly stallion- certainly if he is bound for death, then it would take him shortly. There was no point in quickening his end- and yet, there was always a chance for salvation; were the boy to be protected from the wickedness of others. Such as the black and white woman that all but flicked her forked tongue and tried to get him to do her bidding.
stallion . warmblood cross . fifteen pt one hands
sixteen years . red dun . character by russell
sixteen years . red dun . character by russell
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- the more you look the less you see - By Zahhāk May 9, 2020 at 01:52:53 PM
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