PSYCHEDELiC
i lost a bet to a guy in a chiffon skirt
but i make these high heels work
I bet we could find an easier one a little further on. Crossing Isle is always crawling with them.
Psychedelic snorted, his eyes narrowed into slits, and his ears flicked back at her aggressive stance. One of his front hooves struck the dirt in front of him, digging a small groove and rippling energy up the muscles of his leg. Something about him liked that she didn’t roll the whites of her eyes, flag her tail and make him chase her down to make her his. He couldn’t risk any cowardice being passed on…
“I need a foal,” he said plainly, “and I can’t make one myself Buttercup, so I want to know if you fit the ticket or not.”
She doesn’t, can’t you see?
Psychedelic didnt see. He was irritable and grouchy and needed somewhere to stick that energy and something was telling him this mare in particular was the ticket. Since he’d split away from Talya years ago he’d lost his punching bag and hadn’t realized how badly he needed to get into the market for a new one. All those frustrations that’d plagued him about where his life had turned wrong could be expressed via nips and kicks and angry chases across the dry, open Salem desert… it sounded a lot better than aimlessly wandering circles and talking to himself, anyways.
“Anything wrong with you?” He asked rather rudely, jerking his chin toward her, “Is there a reason you’re not hooked on some other stallion’s line?” A grin cracked over his mouth. “Well, aside from your oh-so-charming attitude.”
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