It takes the criollo some moments to digest what Frey had said and he deflated. This stranger had done nothing to assault or contest his strength like any of the young studs back home would have; like HE would have. Despite this more relaxed posture, there was still a deep tension within him. Although it was difficult to say if this was from his state of pain and exhaustion or if he was simply expecting something else. Cortés decides that should anything of suspect arises from this moment forward, he’d meet it with the courage that had been beaten and bred into him.
That breeze sighed past, catching his mostly wet mane and tail and he shuddered… Which finally seemed to reveal his beaten, weakened state. A visible breath exhales his nose, to which he would instinctively draw himself closer to the stallion who’d greeted him. “ Men. Like us. “ he echoes. This is not a new concept for him, for he’d been viciously driven away by the stallion who’d conquered the man who’d sired him. Competition for breeding rights and herds had been fierce. Unfortunately for young Cortés, this meant little in the way of tolerance when he had become mature enough to start showing interest in mares. He’d only been with the other younglings a short while before circumstance had him on a boat to only the almighty God knows where.
Finally, the young stallion offered his nose in greeting to Frey. He lingers longer than most might ordinarily when introducing themselves, before edging a step closer, relaxing the extension of his neck. “ You lead. I follow. “
2 years old // Stallion // Criollo // 15.2 hands high
Played by Glory