GAUCHO

Step one was getting the bag - biting Oxy was only a pre-requisite to finding that strap of leather, and tearing it in two. Step two was repeating step one until it worked - but he hadn't even accomplished that much. The bag was still there, tethered to Oxy's muscular side.

Being singularly focused had its advantages in lots of ways. It meant that Gaucho was able to compartmentalize pain more effectively, that he wasn't bogged down by emotional troubles, he could perform well in the face of impending doom, and so on. However, it was not without its drawbacks. Being so uniquely engaged with the idea of biting the leather, Gaucho hadn't realized that Oxy was no longer simply retreating. He was doing something. Unfortunately Gaucho's mind wouldn't let go of the task at hand. And so, as the Addict's head lowered and rose, the Wildfire continued to do just what he had been: snapping his jaws open and closed.

As Oxy's head swiftly rose, Gaucho felt his jaws being forced shut, and his head arching painfully upward. His neck, already sore from Oxy's previous assaults, began to spasm and twitch painfully, clenching up in such a way that it felt as though things were actually breaking. Gaucho's dark lips opened to cry out, but only a wet muffled sound emerged - as well as a mouthful of blood. Inadvertently, the dun had bit down on his tongue, causing warm liquid to flood into his mouth, and subsequently fly out again, as he tried to bellow his anger. Distantly, he hoped some of it would land on his bosom-buddy, but the thought was very distant indeed. The sound of his own blood pumping in his ears drowned out any and all mental goings-on.

Staggering backwards, Gaucho began to feel a stripe of heat on the bottom of his jaw.

No wait. Two stripes of heat.

No, no, no. Not heat: pain.

Snorting loudly as a wave of disorientation coldly descended upon him, the dun vaguely became aware that the ends of Oxy's horns had apparently grazed his jaw, opening up two small wounds.

Nice follow through bro, which, when articulated sounded something like: "ni- full-uw- -oo -po" accompanied by mass amounts of blood and tongue-bits.

Gaucho grunted at Oxy's words, indicating vague understanding. Things were still sort of flashing black and white/hot to cold; just as distracting as the drugs had been earlier, but not as much fun. His entire body felt bruised, and for a moment thinking about falling asleep on the hard sand made him grimace. Couldn't they just...collapse here? In the moss? With each other for warmth? Totally bro-style of course.

"yoo -oo". The WildFire agreed, as the dual-horned features of his friend slowly began to swim back into view. Inwardly sighing as reality descended upon him (no, he would certainly have to return back to the Throat tonight ... ), he looked to the edges of their secluded grove. As his right wing feebly tried to move from his side causing a roar of pain to flare up into his wither, the dun resolved to walk home.

Grunting (and drooling blood), the WildFire moved away from his broff (that is, bro-bff). As he left the glade and adrenaline faded from his system, new found injuries began to call his name, demanding his attention. Even so, the worst part of the experience was definitely the leaving bit.

As he left a place reserved for lovers, headed back to his home, he couldn't help but feel he was partaking in a walk of shame.

But shame for what?

Like everything else at the moment, Gaucho just couldn't remember.

---

WC: 624
Attack: Closing.