He felt hot. And his head --Gods, his head-- how it ached. The blue roan stallion lumbered forward through the trees, unsteady on his feet. Where was he? How long had he been like this? Whenever he thought about it, he came up blank. Martyr's existing memories were fuzzy and insubstantial. Even trying to furrow his brow while he thought made him ache, the muscles pulling at the edges of his head wound.
The original injury had happened moons ago, and, by all rights, it should have healed up by now. However, the healing process had been going horribly awry. An ill stroke of luck had visited upon Martyr. The wound had been infected a few times over. The roan had no instruction in the ways of herbal remedy, to his dismay. He'd always admired their skill and knowledge. Yet he'd never managed to keep a friendship with the knowledgeable nomads, not that he remembered meeting any at the current moment.
A small branch, felled by a storm wind, lay in his way. Muddled as he was, Martyr didn't notice it and promptly stumbled over the tangle of it. A mumbled curse fell from his dark lips as the stallion took a few steps to right himself. He then half-turned his head toward the stick, angling to get a better look at what had tripped him. That was when the mare appeared. He didn't see her at first. She was a pretty dunskin paint with long, dark locks and blue eyes, which looked him over concernedly.
"You don't look too good," she murmured. The words were a little garbled in his ears, but the sound of them drew his groggy attention. Heady with fever, Martyr looked at her in a daze. He blinked, and it was as though she'd floated toward him. He hadn't heard her first question very well, but he did catch the second. Martyr tried to shake his head as a response. He winced horribly as the skin on the back of his neck pulled. His blue eyes closed as the recurring dizziness flared. "I don't remember," he managed after a moment.
blue roan overo mustang mutt stallion . 16.1 hands