This plague has become... almost an annoyance.
He has not been ill in several months now, having full recovered from the sickness, though the world seems to be growing sicker by the day. He does not fear it like the others do—his immunity has made him arrogant, it seems—but the sick repulse him, and he does his best to avoid them. Places like the Meadow aren’t peaceful anymore; it is filled with coughing and bleeding and dying horses, all trying to get their last kicks before they succumb to the sickness. He wonders if the herdlands and kingdoms are like this, too. Certainly, there are safe places, like the Isle, but he cannot be too sure of them. If they are inviting the ill within their borders, they are no better than the common lands that are already infested with them.
The man never learned his father’s name, and thus doesn’t know that he traces back to some of the most powerful lines in Beqanna’s history. His unknown ‘sire’ line is full of kings and queens of the Chamber, the Valley, the Deserts. All kingdoms that are ancient history now, but they are rulerships that meant something, and certainly would mean something to Oxytocin if he ever learned them. He’s got powerful magic running through his veins; if only he knew it, though perhaps it’s best if he never learns. He’s heard of Nocturnal, of Tatter and Set and Starlace and the others, of the Blood Alliance and its fall out. If he found out he was a direct descendant of Starlace and Set? He’d probably become unbearable.
Snow has been falling in the Meadow—a late fall occurrence that will probably fade by morning—and it has started to cover some of those that have died of the plague, littering the edges of the clearing distastefully. This place was really the last place some of them wanted to see? Disgusting, honestly. He steers clear of them all as he looks for a secluded spot, somewhere he could perhaps nap, under a beech tree or something. Anything to get away from all of these coughing skeletons and rotting corpses.
The dead and dying fade as he goes further from the border, and finally he is alone. There is even a perfect napping tree here—dear lord, he really must be getting old if he’s searching out the places to take a nap. He leans his weight against the tree, wanting to thread his tendrils of death up through the roots but resisting. This is a good, old tree. Perfect for napping, remember? He doesn’t dare kill it.
He hears the unmistakeable sound of teeth on flesh—he, too, occasionally scratches himself just as vigorously—and rounds the tree, eyes falling on a dark, horned mare just as she finishes her scratch and turns back around. She is pretty, that much is obvious, vaguely Arabic in her form and structure. He had planned a nap, but he supposes life has different plans (oh, how you have no idea, m’boy).
He approaches her at a slow, leisurely pace, looking her up and down and finding no signs of the plague. No coughing, no blood, no emaciation. All good things. She is facing away from him and it is too easy for him to run his lips up her back as he draws alongside her, a wicked grin crossing his lips as he reaches to pinch her withers between his teeth. “Hello there,” he says, his voice deep and husky as his tail flicks over her back almost possessively. “What’s your name?”
OXYTOCIN
I don't have my head on straight
@Xiah SORRY APPARENTLY HE'S FLIRTY