life unfolds in pools of gold
I am only owed this shape if I make a line to hold
Nerine, they had called it. The ocean he’d thrown himself into willingly (adoringly, almost) and been spat back out unbelievably intact and alive had a name. Not only did it have a name, it had people, leadership, a hierarchy – a kingdom for all intents and purposes. Buck had been dismayed to say the least. The old lands had been tossed around, melted, and molded into something completely different. There were pristine pine forests and winding, swirling rivers. There were new mountains with magma tops still cooling, exotic fruit trees he’s never encountered before – only a small offering of New Beqanna he had discovered on his way up the coastline. And what had they done with their blank slate? Greedily carved it into neat kingdoms as they had before.
The black and white tobiano concentrates, tamps the consternation down to where his feet dig into the sand. All he wants is the wild. All he longs for is the sea. He can smell it now, the trade winds wafting into the arena. But in order to stay, he knows he must pay his dues. It is an easy price, all things considered (he has sold his body and strength for less out on the uncivilized plains). It will be good to sharpen his skills and test his mettle, to dance a dance of instinct rather than familiar steps.
The boulders slide into place and the roar and smell of the ocean is blocked off.
Buckthorn faces his opponents. They are all men, save for one female that stands out amongst the fighters. And of the men, a few aren’t even; two of them are boys, really, and he wonders why they are here. The battle commences and it is madness, at first. Shouts pierce his ears and sand rises like a fog across the arena. He can still see the skirmishes (can still hear the pounding of flesh against flesh as bodies collide) but he can’t see an opening. Most of the fighters pair off and he is left standing alone (and he’s glad to see the boys pick each other). Buck rolls his shoulders in a shrug that becomes his first languid stride forward.
He moves across the field in search of a target as the wind starts. It blows by him quickly, his tail tangled and tossed by the end of it. The power of it was astonishing, like a concentrated burst of sea air brought down into the fighter pit as a weapon. With hurried eyes, the black tobiano looks directly forward and finds the source of the gale. He advances from there. The other male is pale and made paler by the shadows he immerses himself in. It doesn’t stop Buck from seeing him, though the waves of buffeting wind that hit him on his way over almost do. The sand nearly blinds him as the grit meets his eyes. He falls, at one point (the wind toppling him so that he falls hard on his side, his hip pulses with pain). But when he reaches the pegasus pressed against the barrier, he has enough strength to turn sharply away and aim a kick with his rear legs. Even with his smarting rear end, he hopes to connect along the other’s barrel – maybe knock some ribs around. Anything to stop that damn wind.
buckthorn