He knows it will not take them long to come. They are always drawn like moths to a candle when there is something new and shiny to be discovered, and he is not surprised to see another stallion stalking towards them. He pauses nearby and tests the air as if sampling them for the plague, and though Oxytocin’s ears flick irritably—if they were ill, it would certainly be more obvious—he makes no move towards the newcomer other than to nod. “Soon enough,” he grumbles, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof.
“It seems I came in contact with a small illness while raising Pangea, but I have mostly recovered. I certainly do not have the plague,” he reaffirms, glancing to the mare. “Oxytocin.” They will realize it is his name he is offering them, and if not that is on them.
Naturally, there is hardly a lull in the conversation—as slight as it is already—before yet another turns up, and Oxytocin can feel his anger start to swell. This one is rude, threatening; Oxytocin simply does not have time for it. His powers may not be as glorious as this one’s, but he gathers his strength anyway, feeling some of the already-scarce grass crumbling to dust beneath the snow. “You need to back off, boy,” he snaps, lowering his head in the beginnings of his own threat. “I can destroy this land and make it as uninhabitable as the hole you crawled out of.”
A third stallion appears, quips and all, and the white-maned stallion sighs. Before he can address this one, though, the mare begins to speak, and Oxytocin steps back to let her talk.
Her voice is honeyed poison as she addresses the would-be king, the scaled stallion before them who even had to stamp his hoof for dramatic effect. He chuckles as she calls him a fool, watching the draconic men to gauge their reactions. “The sick will not be welcome here,” he declares, dark eyes glinting as he looks around to the gathered horses. “I don’t care what you call yourselves—King, fool, fucking princess for all I care—but the ill will not be allowed to cross the channel that connects us with the rest of Beqanna.”
He pauses, but it is not for dramatic effect; let the words sink in, let them realize what he is saying before he continues.
He can be eloquent if he wants, but for now he is just being brusque.
“Rest assured this will be a place that is a safe haven from any of those that are sick. Only the pure of body will be allowed to reside here.
“I will kill any infected that dare cross these borders.” Is it a challenge? Perhaps. But he means every word.
“It seems I came in contact with a small illness while raising Pangea, but I have mostly recovered. I certainly do not have the plague,” he reaffirms, glancing to the mare. “Oxytocin.” They will realize it is his name he is offering them, and if not that is on them.
Naturally, there is hardly a lull in the conversation—as slight as it is already—before yet another turns up, and Oxytocin can feel his anger start to swell. This one is rude, threatening; Oxytocin simply does not have time for it. His powers may not be as glorious as this one’s, but he gathers his strength anyway, feeling some of the already-scarce grass crumbling to dust beneath the snow. “You need to back off, boy,” he snaps, lowering his head in the beginnings of his own threat. “I can destroy this land and make it as uninhabitable as the hole you crawled out of.”
A third stallion appears, quips and all, and the white-maned stallion sighs. Before he can address this one, though, the mare begins to speak, and Oxytocin steps back to let her talk.
Her voice is honeyed poison as she addresses the would-be king, the scaled stallion before them who even had to stamp his hoof for dramatic effect. He chuckles as she calls him a fool, watching the draconic men to gauge their reactions. “The sick will not be welcome here,” he declares, dark eyes glinting as he looks around to the gathered horses. “I don’t care what you call yourselves—King, fool, fucking princess for all I care—but the ill will not be allowed to cross the channel that connects us with the rest of Beqanna.”
He pauses, but it is not for dramatic effect; let the words sink in, let them realize what he is saying before he continues.
He can be eloquent if he wants, but for now he is just being brusque.
“Rest assured this will be a place that is a safe haven from any of those that are sick. Only the pure of body will be allowed to reside here.
“I will kill any infected that dare cross these borders.” Is it a challenge? Perhaps. But he means every word.