Though Peyote does not covet prizes for his own interest, there is some pleasure in finding out that the horse whose path he crossed is a mare. Those, as he understands it, are the ones the Lagoon seems to really enjoy driving into their watery, muddy depths and keeping from their homes. Her feminine scent, though accompanied by the heavy musk of another stallion, invites his hormones to rage. She fights back, which he enjoys. Peyote threw his strikes harder, almost gleeful if not for the preciseness in which he targeted her to attack. This was not a colt at play, but a feral boy born of two physical beasts who had been taught far too early how to use his hooves, teeth, and body weight to get what he wanted.
Every strike she managed to land brought out a grunt or a controlled squeal, still doing his best not to draw too much attention to their sequestered area. It pushed the adrenaline higher; raised the stakes; made things interesting.
Then she was running. An offended squeal tore past his pink-and-black lips, ears flicking back and blue eyes indignant as they caught the snap of her black tail and the retreat of her rich, warm colored figure. He had only just walked into this territory but already he had smelled so many smells of other horses, he knew if she drew further inland her likelihood of escaping him increased. Peyote threw his weight forward, digging trenches into the mineral-rich ground as he found purchase and burst forth.
She knew the paths to take, and Peyote was trailing in her wake, pumping his dark legs and trying to get ahead of her. When she called out - Zurok, Fell, names that meant nothing to him except those to be alerted - he snorted and veered to the left, seeming to suddenly take a different route. He knew not where he was running, only that he wanted to trick her into thinking her shouts had deterred him, if she would pull up her gait at all, he planned to run in a half-circle and try to cut off her charge, wanting to push her back the way they’d come and drive her to the shoreline.
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