Why am I just not surprised when another creature from the pits of hell bursts out from the depths of the Rift? This one, like the others, assumes the form of a carnivore, maybe because a herbivore would be too cuddly and sweet to incite murderous rage in the hearts of all horses. My ears slam flat to my scalp as a great tiger spews forth, seemingly free of the chains the Earth God tried to place on it.
Just like the other three times, testosterone-fuelled dickwads fly towards the creature, squabbling over who will get to be the one to take it down. Some mares, too - so much for being the fairer sex. Meanwhile I plant myself firmly on the sidelines, feeling the familiar quiver of my frightened flesh as I watch blood and fur flying. A couple of the bystanders try to set the tiger on fire - how sweet - whilst others use their horns, hooves and teeth to marmalise it. I arch my neck and back away further, not out of fear (well, not totally out of fear), but out of my desire to be able to see the whole battlefield. When I can encompass every fighter with my gaze, I can see who is injured, who needs my help.
As ever, herbs are stuffed liberally in my halter, and I beckon into the depths of my soul to try and draw upon my magic in preparation. I have never used it before, but if the tiger manages to rip some limbs off like it seemingly wants to, I may have reason to use it. So I stand sentinel on the outskirts of the fight, hunting for healer-needing-folk to tend to, whilst simultaneously grimacing at the horror of the battlefield before me. ""
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
SWP :: Blunt Little Instruments (Part I)
