.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
Little defective colt has only just found the pup when he sees the predator emerge from the shadow. He feels no fear, even in the face of the wolf, for he knows it as nothing different than the companion that rests contentedly and loyally by his brother's side. He remembers how Archibald speaks to Loretta- he wishes he could say those same words to soothe the beast. He wishes Archibald was here now, to tame the creature that stood snarling before him. But he knows he is alone, at the very least to a certain extent. The puppy struggles beneath the tree branch and he hears her cries, but he is not one with her. The voices make him distinctly aware of his solitude as they whisper of those who have died and left him behind. He isn't sure who they were talking about; he isn't sure they are speaking entirely to him. And he wonders if the wolf approaching felt that very same pang that threatens his own sanity at times. He looks upon the creature as it advances with a curiously tilted head and notices key features- sees the skin that hangs from his bones and the ribs that poke through flesh- the short, seemingly twisted legs that mark a stunt in growth. The colt feels sympathy towards the enemy and an urge to connect with it as a means of keeping it at bay- and yet he fears this to be impossible. He sees the violence in the heart of the being and understands that it feeds off of the blood and rush that was once forced upon him. They are too different to ever be one. Looking rather odd, the colt lowers his head and parts his lips to match the advancing wolf. He has never known hunger, but he can see it in the monster's eyes, and perhaps on some base level, he can understand it. The bridle that hangs about his neck begins to glow a bright green, and it lights up his face and reflects off of his own white teeth as they flash unimpressively at the wolf. Quickly he casts a meaningful glance back at the black and scraggly puppy, as if to tell her he will protect her. He is not sure if she understood, nor is he sure of anything. On new yet sturdy legs that accompany his breed, he charges forward brashly, legs churning and light colored heavy hooves pounding the earth as he bridges the gap. He lifts himself upon pillar-like hind legs, and kicks out with two hooves aimed for the head, and feels a strange rush accompanied with a sense of belonging. This is what he was raised to do- even as a colt he feels the surge of the battle, and he recalls the bloody taste of his baptism, and how it has led him to this point. No gentility rests in the body even of a child; murder is bred young. |
