A wrinkle of her uniquely white striped black neck caught between his teeth and the moment it did, he clamped down as hard as his jaws would allow. He was immediately as unkind as he could be, sensing the fear that permeated off of her and stabbed the environment around them, making her the perfect target for what he had been raised for. The thrill of succeeding made his steps more energetic, his movements almost playful in their bullying cruelty. He was having fun because she was as frightened as she was.

She went first for the shallows and he was on her, trying to encourage her to go forward until he could have her swimming far from the island all before anyone could discover them. But sense just managed to snatch her at the right time and she only splashed a little into the saltwater before she pulled her weight up and turned, shooting sidelong down the beach. Frustration hardened Peyote’s blue eyes and he tossed his head as he turned to follow her path, but tried pumping his legs even faster to catch up whatever ground he’d lost. His hooves dug into the soft, damp sand at the shoreline and threw hunks of it up along his undercarriage and in a spray out behind him, making all-too-obvious tracks he wouldn’t normally prefer to leave.

Yet Peyote hoped to seize the opportunity and somehow force her to turn into the ocean where he could swim behind her, making her travel across the channel to Crossing Isle and down, down, down into the mineral-rich, murky, muddy, dark piece of the Lagoon he preferred to inhabit. He was meant to drive little prizes back to the Lagoon for the enjoyment of his brothers, perhaps even as a gift of gratitude for entrusting him into the position they’d voted him into. But Peyote had no intention. This white-striped girl was his and his alone.