Eyes suddenly rest upon the odd stallion, sulfurous pools burning holes into his greenish pelt, acid dripping from the open wounds. It feels real, even though he knows his hide remains intact, that no acid sizzles through his vein. The sensation, the being seen, is unnerving, leads him to fidget, nervously chomping on the bone held in his mouth like a bit. It is not to late to flee, and he knows the path well, could race down it blind. The paint wouldn't catch him, not here, with the dead sheltering him and the thick curtains of moss that hang like shrouds from the trees threatening to wrap around one's eyes.
"Friends have no reason to linger in shadow, reveal yourself." Friends. Did the winged one think him a friend? He didn't sound friendly. Black tail tuft writhes indecisively behind him, slithering around his hocks like the comforting caresses of a great snake. He is a monster, a zombie, a freak, so that means he doesn't have to obey, doesn't it? The winged paint seems used to being obeyed, waiting for his order to be heeded rather than seeking out the vague form that lurks in the gloom. Head tilts as he ponders, playing through scenarios. Run, or stay? Remain or approach?
Finally, it is the flame bird that pulls him forward, a captivating creature that glows in the dim lighting like a beacon. It is a monster too, isn't it? After all, it is on fire, or at least appears to be. Isn't it? Adorned in hues from scarlet to gold, dancing colors that hypnotize and call silently. Cautiously, the ghoul slinks into view, hovering nearby, yet poised to disappear in an instant should he feel threatened.
If this is a flame monster, then what is the one who stands with it? Abyssal gaze soaks in his appearance again, running it through his mind and memory for identification. An angel, maybe? Not the soft, fluffy ones that lots of horses speak of, but the ones his mum had told him about. The ones with armor and swords, the ones who flew down on white wings to smite evil. He shrinks back, knowing now that running would be futile. "I didn't mean to be bad," he pleads around the rib sliver. If the angel was angry, would his friends help him? A glance is cast about, seeking bodies in the surrounding muck. There is a hint of one, many yards away, partially submerged in water. It and Mira would protect him, wouldn't they? He begins to edge toward the large puddle, sidling along sideways in a vain attempt at being subtle.
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I'm not having fun yet.... ( Slaiter )
