He stutters and you watch him with interest, even as the fog begins to infiltrate your mind. The plants are crawling, groping, grasping... The vines are getting more insistent now. Before they only poke and prodded, now they squeeze and strangle. Your brain begins to contract as the vines curl around like a constrictor snake squeezing the last breath out of it's prey. They won't be denied and they're letting you know. A particularly forceful wave crashes into you, forcing you to widen your stance. You sway dangerously in the waters, and some small sentient portion of your mind calls from the back of your head. You've got to get out of the water, it demands. But you've almost got what you want. You can't leave now.

He steps towards you and you begin to gurgle your amusement. The gravely laughter rolls from your mouth and you blow bubbles into the water like a child. His reddened teeth don't concern you at all. The sane part of your mind pokes at you again, trying to keep you on track. He's a warrior. He's exactly what you need. He's crazy and he fights. Glass-horn will love him. He's trying to be intimidating, but your mind is too far gone to process such things. Your mind is in a tunnel, focused only on the light at the end and ignoring the terrors in the middle. You want to force them to respect you. This stallion will become part of your fare that allows you to board the train to the open air on the other side. You're certain of it.

He come close. If you weren't high it might be too close for comfort. You almost raise your head, but then he lowers his. You're close... so close. If you were in the right mind you would simply throw your head up and forward, gouge his eye out with the end of your horn, then laugh as the globe stuck to the point like a prize. Instead, you just enjoy the imagery and stare the stallion down. Wanna die? Your ears flicker at the words. Something in the back of your mind whispers. Why do you think I eat these plants? You know its the truth. You hate your life but death in battle isn't honorable at all. Its the weakling's way out. Admitting something is stronger than you, letting them draw your last breath from your chest... What warrior god would let a fallen man enter Valhalla?

You lift your head inches, removing your nostrils from the water. Your breath comes rapid and shallow, like you've run too hard. Its the drugs. “Pretty boy does,” and you laugh and laugh and laugh to yourself. Maybe he has the same sick perversion as you. Perhaps he'd rather thrash something beautiful, ruin every ounce of joy it brought to this earth, than terrorize something ugly. What good does it do if you make the world a better place? Yes... perhaps this crazed freak isn't so bad after all. But who is pretty boy? This stallion won't know. You don't even know his name. You just know you hate him.

“Come with me,” you suggest as you take a step backwards. You're not exactly sure where to find him, but he can't have gotten too far. You would close your eyes to try and think, but you still don't trust the maniac before you entirely. The mist in your head makes it hard to figure out where you just were, where you're taking this stallion now... but you'll figure it out. Perhaps you can follow your footsteps back the way you came. At this point, its the best idea you've got. Another wave comes, throwing you a step closer to the beach, and you watch the maniacal stallion for confirmation or denial.

we all look for ways to make the pain go away