bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
It is pleasant to be surrounded by family. It creates a small buzz in his veins, and he feels a small purr of satisfaction in the back of his throat. He tilts his head as the blue roan comes up. It’s the closest he's been to a sibling since Bright—and the fact that it is a half-sister and not a full sister barely dims the connection as it races through him, the golden light of it like a lightning bolt that he need only reach out to grab a hold of. It was certainly more than even the faint pull he had felt next to her grandson.
“Sister,” he greets in kind, dipping his heavy head. “It’s been so long.”
Never—it’s been never—but they both know that and what’s the fun in pointing it out?
His attention though is caught by the arrival of the spotted mare and the look of exhaustion that creeps across her face and into her voice. He was not a particularly kind stallion, but it was easier to converse with a mare who was operating at her peak level. Pulling on the connection between himself and Heartfire, he stole some of his own health, his own energy to feed it into the mare. His shoulder begins to bleed more freely, blooded matted and stained there, but he doesn’t notice and he doesn’t acknowledge the small transfer. Instead, he just nods. “The pleasure is all mine, Breckin,” the words kind enough but the voice slightly hollow, as if he could not muster enough to actually mean all of the pleasantries.
He does laugh at Scorch’s rebuke though, the sound genuine in his throat.
It wasn’t often that someone caught him off guard.
“Alright, have it your way,” he muses, shrugging his powerful shoulders. “The land of the living it is.” He listens to her speech, nodding to himself in thought. He doesn’t confirm nor deny what she says, instead he just lifts his gaze to the other two mares. “And what of you two? What are your opinions of this?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
