Birdsong brings warmth, sunlight, grass, and even better, clover. The tiny three and four leaved shamrocks overrun the valley of the Basin in an emerald carpet of bounty, undulating on their tiny stalks with an afternoon breeze. The old stallion stands fetlock deep in this ocean of deliciousness, his muzzle buried into the smorgasbord as it has been for hours, distracted from his fitful sleep by the sweet aroma.

His tufted tail jerks, swinging against his wash rack sides at regular intervals as if chasing away some biting insect, though it’s still too early in the season for such plagues, and after a time his tail demurs to the quick movement of a hind hoof, his balance shifting to swat absently at some annoyance in his barrel. The sensation is chronic, having come on in small, easily dismissed intervals and only rising to an overwhelming crescendo over time.

Finally, the expanding pressure of his organs pulls his gluttonous mouth from the feast, ears falling back in displeasure as he turns his head to nose at the offending midriff, finding nothing out of the ordinary save the unpleasant feeling from within. He shakes himself, rests immobile for a time, but can’t find a comfortable position, shifting from one hip to the other where he stands. Sweat begins to dampen his skin and patchwork coat despite the mild temperature, his growing discomfort making him hot, his throat dry.

"Hrr," A voice complains at the back of his mind, his companions body echoing the pain of his bonded. The young python squirms on the stallions poll, never having experienced pain before and wishing fervently that he wasn’t being afforded the chance now. The stallion shakes himself again, walking now, his worry rimmed eyes searching for some sort of relief.

He’s heard the term colic before, probably even dealt with a mild case of it once or twice in his life – his old life – but back then any discomfort was quickly dispatched by an aides discrete, 'Drink this,' 'Eat this,' 'Rest now,' or any other of a hundred advices instantly at his disposal. Now, obviously, things are much different. He scans the valley for a passerby, one of the healers, one of the warriors, anyone, but all that meets his anxious gaze is reflected green, peaks still white with snow rising atop it in the far distance.

The stallions innards clench suddenly, pushing the air from his lungs in a low, strained groan. He folds, unceremoniously lowering himself to the ground where he stretches, rolls, curls himself into unnatural shapes for an animal so large and inflexible. The python drops from his head, writhing in his own agony and dispelling the remains of his last meal in a revolting, putrid mass of fluid and goo, the original species of the small mammal impossible to discern at its late stage of digestion and decomposition.



"Talk."
OOC // I know I'm a shit for starting a new thread when I owe so many replies already, but I've been battling a stomach issue for the past couple days so this just kind of wrote itself. I DO WHAT THE MUSE TELLS ME TO OKAY <3