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And so he would not.
The boy took to the sky instead, searching wildly for his wombmate. Sweat stained his white-streaked sides as he flew, the sun bearing down on him relentlessly. He knew of the god's glory from the tales his mother had told him, but Nizho cursed the deity despite it as he flew, his cloven hooves twitching with annoyance and fatigue as he lost altitude. Snorting, the child let his coldfire eyes travel downwards. Below him, some semblance of an oasis danced. While it truly was not anything but a mudpit in these times of drought, it was still reprieve in his gunmetal eyes.
Tipping a wing to the side, the lithe boy glided in wide, gentle circled before finally clearing himself for his landing. Hindquarters tucked in and his wings flapped hard, bringing his front end up. He landed smack in the middle of the muck, and he sunk to his belly before wildly cantering (with some struggle) toward the edge of the mud. Lowering his white-tipped mane, the boy shook out his body and flung hot, sticky mud everywhere. Turning, his ombre tail--now mud-covered and disgusting--struck against his sides. "At least now I will be safe from the flies." He mumbled the sentence before he looked up, catching the sight of a pristine phantom before him. "Oh, hello."
I'd rather be a wild one instead
