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The colt’s sudden distress is startling, and Lynx is uncertain of how to respond. He had always been plagued by the horn, had grown used to it. That another would be so concerned is strange, but not unpleasant. Tentatively, he nuzzles the colt’s neck, hoping to offer comfort, while mulling over his exclamation. He may not be bad, per say, but he certainly wasn’t completely good either. Memories of violence and bloodshed rise, filling his mind with images that would certainly terrify his young friend. The sound of pained shrieks, breaking bones, and blurred pictures of wounded horses dragging themselves from the battlefield, or worse, just lying broken on the ground. No, Lynx was no saint, not the guardian angel Cera seemed to believe him to be. He was trying to better himself though, and surely that must count for something?
His thoughts are interrupted by the boy speaking again. Could the gods help him? The buckskin wasn’t sure. A snake had once offered to lift his curse, but shades had driven him away before any help could be administered. The gods had to be powerful, they were gods after all, but could they really reshape his twisted lance of horn? Perhaps they could at least numb the flesh around it, erasing the pain he’d felt for so long. With no certain reply, he simply shrugs in response.
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Fragility and Freezing Cold [Open, Adults?]
