“I suppose if your warriors are no good, you do what you have to do,” you muse aloud in response to Torleik's description of the mechanical beast, more chatty than you usually are. Your tone is not unkindly, simply matter of fact. It's not that you don't find the extra help useful- you certainly do- but you can't help but feel like they built it because they expect that their warriors are not enough. But ah, such failures are to be expected in a land that has thus-far failed to deliver to you an opponent you can not best. Well, except Colt. But, to be fair, she did use some sort of nasty magic to send a rock pummeling through your flesh straight to your scapula. You could hardly call it a fair fight.

Still, regardless of your previous statement, you can't help but chuckle (almost friendly?) when the unicorn informs you of his apparently benevolent act of keeping you safe. If you were a more nosy personality you might wonder how they ever let anybody in; however, you can see the benefit in keeping everybody out. It's what you do on a daily basis. Perhaps the herd has simply grown to the size they find most practical and they do not care to add any others. Although, it does beg the question, how does it know which of them to strike down and which of them to let walk freely?

As your pondering is interrupted by your companion's display and the Blödskald's curiosity, you return his gaze and find that you do not feel your normal ire at his question. To be fair, he's really the first reasonable stallion you've ever met. Well, except Gaucho, who was more than happy to get high with you on the forest floor. “It's an unfortunate side effect of teaching one very obnoxious blue and black pegasus a lesson,” you respond vaguely, but decide that if he's reasonable you should at least try to be. Through the ever-lifting haze that fogs your mind, you find the word. “Creature,” although it might not be clear if you're talking about her or you, as a long web of drool drips down from your lips. Very attractive. It's just one of your many good traits.

Glancing back at the sentinel, you can't help but feel the nagging questions return. To be fair, you're smart enough, but you really prefer to stray away from scholarly tendencies. With a quick dip of your mouth into your shoulder bag- a well-practiced motion- you produce a vine or two of locoweed. It should be more than enough to drown out any lingering thoughts of curiosity or questions. Without further ado, you ingest the plants, savoring the way they slide across your throat and down your tongue. Such sweet glory. Still, you know that their effects will be delayed until you can digest them, so you supplement your habit with a quick shock to the brain via your clandestine dark magic. The shock is swift and mildly painful, but it lasts only a fraction of a second. The real effect of the magic is to make you (or someone else, you suppose) feel your locoweed high without having to even eat the plants. It has been a brilliant blessing in your life.

Oxy