Ok, so maybe you got a little more than you bargained for when you asked the tribal stallion to hit you back, because obviously he doesn't know how to hold his (metaphorical) liquor. You brace yourself, or think you're bracing yourself. Who knows what you're actually doing, because there is no good way to guard against an attack when you're this strung out. But you're too caught up in the moment to think so much about that. And well... even if you had thought about it, it wouldn't have prepared you for the Tribal man's fall.

As he trips over the tree root (which you don't actually see, so it makes you wonder what exactly the hell happened) you have basically no time to respond. You were too close, he's falling too fast, and even if you would have had time to move his large wings would have surely knocked you over anyways. Like they do now. Body, wings, whatever it is that hits you, puts you way more off balance than you ever expected to be. And so, much like your new friend, you crash to the ground in a flurry of hooves and body parts, your burn scars protesting at all the motion. A whining grunt escapes your mouth as you finally come to settle on the ground, thankfully avoiding completely smashing the orb in your bag. Note to self- don't ever fight while you're this high.

And so it is that you're on the ground when the stallion suddenly commands you to look at the sky. And.... well, why the hell not. You roll down so you're on your side, eye looking up between the trees and seeing... the sky. Maybe you're just too used to the weird way it looks or maybe the effects are hitting Gaucho a little bit harder than you, but whatever it is, you don't see much. But that's not really what catches your interest. “Gods don't throw parties for mortals,” you grumble out finally, a little over all the god-worshiping nonsense. It's not that you don't believe, you just don't believe they care about the mortals as much as everyone says they do. Because you've never had their good graces. And you've never seen their good graces upon anyone else. Even the orb you have on your shoulder was from a mysterious hag, not the gods themselves.

So you roll your gaze from sky to the Tribal man, who has now happily perched himself on his back, keeping careful eye on the wings, should they choose to flail around again.

Oxy