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A quiet defense drifts from the mist where the gray mare lingers, revealing the past in a near-whisper that Slaiter strains to hear and understand. Why is the black brute different now than he was before? Though he has never met the other stallion before, Abishia had welcomed him rather warmly before, and now Africa is confirming that the personality of the wingless pegasus has been warped. What could cause such a thing? Was it contagious? Slaiter's new found confidence wavers at the thought, and he almost retreats, having no wish to become harsh.
It is the painted mare by his side that keeps him in place, the faintest slide of her fur against his steadying his nerves. It is irrational, but he has not often been in contact with others, and it is calming to finally find someone who does not automatically shun him, who sides with him against another creature. Of course he remembers the kindness of Tangere, but they had yet to stand together against a potential threat, lacking the bonds that such an experience can build. Nor did the silver and white mare keep looking to him the way this one does, smiling every time. He does not really understand the attention, but finds that he does not mind it either.
He is so preoccupied by this new development that he almost misses the next words from Windwalker, the blunt speech he makes about changing, even promising the rot-colored unicorn that he will change, destroyed by an already broken heart and betrayed by the darkness in which he so often hides. The ghoul's head tilts in confusion as he mulls over those words, uncertain of what meaning lies in them. His heart is not broken, for he has never been around others long enough for it to be affected in such a way. Twisted, perhaps, should to words of hateful herds be believed, or maybe not even there at all, but he is certain that, should it exist, the organ is whole. Also, why should he become different than how he already is? He has gone for 13 years without any noticeable alterations, still content to dance with the dead and tell stories to the night, still the odd abomination looking for those who are as corrupted as he is. It does not matter anyway, he supposes, watching with midnight eyes as the man strides away. They lie, these horses with anger in their veins. Mum had told him so, in the years before he was driven from her side, granting him lifetimes worth of advice drawn from the minds of the deceased. So, this prophecy must be a lie, formed from spite.
Belatedly, he notes that Abishia has stepped away into the swirling vapors, only her white splashes visible in the gloom. Is that it, then, the meeting disbanded without another word? Social interactions have never been his strong point, and he hesitates, wavering between stay and go, hooves shifting restlessly beneath his bulk. But no, he hears the girl's voice now, addressing the elusive gray, telling of a previous meeting between the two and asking the mare to accompany her on a walk. She comes back into view then, laughing at something he cannot see, stating her ignorance of his name.
"No," he confirms, not quite certain if she cares to know or if she was simply musing out loud. Deciding to err on the side of manners, he tells her anyway. "Slaiter."
Kissing death and losing my breath
Slaiter
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