No Time for Lies and Empty Fights
Wicked delight spread like an all encompassing fog through the mind of the angry stallion, but it was not his; no mirth leaked through his strained expression. The Boggart could not have been more pleased with the aftermath of his attack. The scene which unfolded was beautifully chaotic, the melody of plaguing fear a joy to behold. He writhed in the wealth of his success, and laughed brightly as the painted child began to flail like a fish caught in death’s cruel talon. All the while, the white draft had jerked backwards fretfully – she reeked, fuelled his appetite and inflated his swollen ego. Dull hair swirled in frenzy about her startled skull and beyond wings whooshed wildly and hopelessly, while hooves thudded to the rhythm of thundering hearts – it was his perfect pandemonium.
The stallion roared angrily, a ferocious lion, dauntlessly imposing. VECI! Blazing eyes were set upon the cave, and small burnt-red ears were trained back viciously as he snapped a final warning. The creature, his bonded, was infuriatingly defiant – like a dog fixed to his bone; blind, deaf, caught in a hedonistic stupor that even Hector couldn’t penetrate.
As December shrank still further from the terrified girl, the Dragon soldier exploded forward with all of the rapidity of hungry wildfire; enormous bronze wings surged down against the flurrying air and leonine tail uncoiled like a whip in his wake. He could barely believe the Boggart’s impertinence – it was a characteristic unusually kept well tethered. Lashing hooves sliced through the apparition, but Veci was quite untouchable and his wavering form dissolved simply into thin air with a gratified sneer. At first it didn’t occur to Hector that his audience was none the wiser. He turned as the ghost slipped away through the tree line, to find the young winged glaring, cheeks stained, wet; and the Falls mare caught between their loathing hold, seemed now to be just a shadow of the tenderness she had been.
The fallout was considerable, and he drew a heavily dismayed breath.
It was not his habit to manipulate Threshold travellers, though it was plainly obvious who now the girl leaned towards. "It is time to leave," he rumbled, glancing to the shire with a softening eye. She had been played, reduced to ashes, and he pitied her position. Gaze transferred to the flaxen haired child afterward – her wings had thus far served as naught but a trip hazard, though they need not be. "Your wings..." Feathers, glinting golden-red, ruffled and lifted as though to illustrate his meaning. "Set them high across your back as I have. The journey ahead is long, worse still with you stumbling about like a rabbit." He snorted briskly, and as his neck stiffened vertically, flame-like tattoos flared up his exposed throat.
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