Red dust stirs around chipped hooves. It has a certain beauty in the way it moves over the parched landscape, free for a moment of its dismal restraints of being hard-packed earth. It yearns to achieve more in this desolate existence, to be more than a substance to trod upon and compact in the brittle soles of withering heels and flaking frogs. The wind is an effortless artist and the red dust her endless paint, so willing to move, yielding to the slightest of commands. What simplicity in this otherwise complex and tangled life.

It is annoying as fuck.

Everything in this wasteland becomes crimson over time. Everything.
The wind heralds not the fine tip of horse-hair instruments, but exhales like a labored stallion running a sex marathon; triumphant, but careless. The dust settles so small and fine that it's not noticed at first - the stallion's erection in the morning dawn.
By the time you recognize the stale aroma of dragon dander crusting around your nose you have a red sheen you didn't have the day before (or several) - the stallion has murmured sweet nothings and bought you dinner, but they're distractions and your tail is suddenly flung sideways.
Then, it's too late, and you're not black any more you're chestnut and every time you breathe it's like there's fire in your lungs from all the dust spinning around inside - the stallion's on top of you and you're too bloated from that delicious dinner to do a damn thing about it; the apples may have been drugged too.

Yes, that's exactly how Coris felt as he lifted his head to regard the great steel obelisk rising above him, like he was being fucked by a stallion.

The wind harried his mane and the sun glinted off his horn and part of the grumpy stallion knew he should be content enough to feel the sun pressing against his backside when he'd nearly submitted to an eternity of cold, but he felt abruptly oppressed by the shadow this monument threw off. It was only one segment of an incomplete work, but to a crafter that had only known leather his whole life and magic never, he felt awkwardly unprepared. How does one handle being fucked by a stallion? He wouldn't know. A shame he hadn't gotten more quality time with Ulrik then.

Because Ulrik knows his way around metals.

"Do I... do I say something?" Coris asked with a drawling sigh, his lips puttering as he trailed his question in a procrastinating exasperation. Upon his backside Venati said nothing, though his eyes whirled orange with his curiosity. "Do I touch it?" Coris queried once more, perplexed as evidence by the tilt of his head. When no response came Coris flicked and ear back and finally tossed his head over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the falcon. The movement tossed his mane towards the bird, whom gave an indignant cry and took to the skies while simultaneously flicking his tail and shitting a white stain on the grey horse.

Coris' beard twitched with unhappiness as his features crumbled into quiet wrath.

Coris had always been good at complaining, but at least he'd had good reason. Now he had his life saved and crafting magic thrust into his face, at a higher grade than what he should naturally have, by his ancestor's regards, and yet he found he was not any happier than before. In fact, he may even be marginally unhappier than before.

Resigning himself to his fate and the debts he owed this herd, Coris leaned forward and set his horn upon the fragment of the wall. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply and muttering under his breath.