You limp, bruised and broken, heart heavy and sides bloody. You're a physical mess, but your mental condition is no better. Was it a hallucination, or was it all real? You thought it was fake, but here you are and your wounds are very much real. Your battle with Arlo... it couldn't be, could it? You've lost? You snort your disdain, your hatred and your broken heart out of your nostrils and into the air. Above you, the moon shines down on the waves as they crash onto the shore. Unfortunately, the night does nothing for the heat. If its even possible, it seems to be even hotter at night than during the day. With a heavy sigh, you reach into your bag and drag out four or five of the vines. Without any sort of thought or delicacy, you swallow the things and feel them slide down into your gut. They settle into the pits of your stomach, consoling your failure with their sweet taste and whispers of the numbness you're about to feel. Nobody as even been here for you. At least your plants have never failed you.

For a while you just stand, staring at the waves and letting their rhythmic motion lull you into a gentle sort of peace. You long to walk out into the waves and let yourself fall into their salty embrace, but they threaten to burn your wounds every time you start to take a step forwards and so you simply stay in place. Above you, a bird or bat flies. You don't raise your head long enough to watch. Just a few days prior you told a pegasus that horses were meant for the ground. Now you long to have wings, to take flight and leave this place.

When you arrived in this land, you were convinced that this would be a new start for you. You would find greatness here, you would glory and honor. You would find respect. Again, you snort at the idea. You've found nothing. You've found ridicule. You won your first fight, but against whom? A coward, a green beast. When it really mattered, when it all came down to the wire, you lost everything. Was he right all alone, the cocky white stallion with the flowing locks? No... you refuse to believe it. “PRETTY BOY!” you bellow out, but not because you want him to come. The call is terrible, it screams of death. You hate him, you hope he stays away.

Even as you scream, your mind is becoming hazy. The world around you is just a little fuzzier, a little tipsier. Your widen your stance to stay upright, but nothing seems to help. You sway and stumble, taking a few steps in a futile attempt to save your balance. In the end, you're forced to give in to gravity and let your body crash down to the earth. Your bruises pulse their protest as you land, but you hardly notice it. The sands envelope you, sweeping up around you and cradling you like a foal in the womb. In a final act of defiance, you kick out a hind leg, trying to throw sands to the heaven. You curse the gods and you curse pretty boy's mother. You curse yourself for your weakness. And when you run out of things to curse, you grow still and just lay there. You can only hope death will take you. You are not worthy of life.

@[Arlo]- Don't mind Oxy, he's melodramatic. Take you're time replying (I promise) but I can't deny that I'm totally stoked for this tread!!