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Small, black ears pinged upright, wrenching the head and neck around with them. They’d caught movement between the trees, two forms that stepped as one. The stallion inhaled sharply, mentally snatching at the warmest layer of scent in his nostrils. He read what he could from their mingled odors, noted that both were female, young to the world.
The pair approached heedless of his unfamiliarity, his stance, his attention. Weakness showed in their gait and in the way they seemed to hold each other upright. He couldn’t tell which was leading which. Though the grey was quite a bit larger and her form bulked further by a large, feathered wing tucked along her side, she was obviously distraught. The roan watched her long legs swing blindly in front of her, piloted completely by the golden shoulder she leaned so heavily against. The golden mare, though seemingly more present than the grey, telegraphed a similar weakness. He watched with growing interest the way she angled her head, poised her ears, positioned herself around her surroundings. The gold was blind, physically where her companion only mentally.
Slowly, the stallions lips pulled away from his muzzle, pinched high on the cheekbones in an open mouthed grin that exposed so much gum even the first premolars were visible. It was an expression no ordinary horse would exhibit, but one he adopted readily. This was his purpose. He needed no prompt from above to recognize such obvious targets.
Thoughts, visuals, sounds already lighted the dark recesses of his mind. He would strike the grey mare first, incapacitate her inky, spidery legs. Someone had clearly broken her mind early in life, and he knew well enough that a mind numbed by grief would feel no physical pain, but he would let her gold companion bring those ruined emotions to front for him. Familiar screams had a way of doing that.
The stallions mottled hindquarters gathered. He would enjoy this. The gold especially excited his appetite. She seemed fully adapted to her blindness, but he could make it new, make it chilling. Losing one sense must inevitably strengthen the others - touch, smell, sound - but he could ruin those too, with the shhhrrip of her hide detaching from the muscle beneath, with the shock of a thousand newly exposed nerve endings, with the metallic choke of blood in her mouth, in her lungs.
He would shun only her amber face. Let her mind claw desperately at the only part of herself it would recognize and be met with total blackness. He expected the grey to protest, come suddenly alive and present to the horrors before her. It would only open her to a comparable treatment. That too he would relish. It was a game he had mastered long ago and mastered anew each day. His was the duty of the devout, the true. Others were loyal only when gods demanded simple tasks, but not Reynier. He would serve his full life long and for his service never see the end of it.
One knee rose to step off into canter then slammed back to the ground. The stallion spun, mouth still hung open, ears pinned flat against his skull. Another shaggy creature stood facing him, babbling some foreign greeting. He held his position, grumbling a low note of challenge in response.
“I’ve no need of names or welcomes. Find some other patron for your wares.”
OOC: Yes please. :)
@[Africa] @[Rasta] @[Thor]
*Edited because my derpy tags didn't work. -.-;
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