She smells of fel. But we’ve seen their kind before, and not killed them.
Well, we have killed one of them before. Their flesh tastes foul. Still, this one makes no aggressive moves. She crouches, watching.
She is in my way.
Step, step, drag. I bare my teeth. Move.
“This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.” The demon hunter cocked her head. “I’d consider putting him out of his misery, but I don’t know if he knows what misery is anymore. Sure seems determined to get somewhere.”
The death charger was steadfastly creeping forward, dragging crippled hind legs behind him. He was covered in blood, ichor, and dust, and not a few chunks had been taken out of his hide besides. It was his barding that fascinated Verloren, however–it wasn’t the typical skulls and spikes attire. No, this was the very tattered, much repaired armor of a Paladin’s charger.
“Is that a scare tactic, I wonder? It would sure get a few Light-blessed nipples twisted, I bet.”
She smiled as he bared his teeth. “Am I in your way?” It was easy enough to stand up and start to walk away–his business was none of hers. So what if he wanted to drag himself across all of the Broken Isles?
“…hold on. I can’t heal you. But I can help you, maybe.”
I tolerate her hands on me. She knows what she is doing.
My hind legs are lashed to strong branches. She gently pushes away strands of tattered flesh, and binds those in place as well. The damage is all below my hocks. My fetlocks are shattered and wrapped–I cannot flex, there. But I can lift my hooves high enough to compensate.
I wobble. But I can get along a little faster, now.
Well, faster than that, if I need to. A horse that wants to run will run, shattered bones or no. We will run ourselves to death for you.
We will run ourselves past death, for you.