Blood of the Enemy | Private

The tall painted cross stood stiffly, the throbbing hot pain from blows had begun to subside enough that the pulsing in Prophet's ears had quieted to a low hum. Prophet had been standing quietly, in an attempt to keep a half-way respectful distance from the members of Olde. The cool, lush grass soothed his war-beaten hooves even if just slightly. He'd barely heard the King himself approach until the whisper registered in his head. Exile. The only part of Prophet that moved was his eyes, for just a moment, before complying to the King's orders. He followed, unable to discern Vasska's tone.

What kind of comment was appropriate in return? Some kind of small talk? Bitterness rose into Prophet's mouth like bile staining his tongue. For the sake of his herd... He had to be civil, and kind. Before the battles had begun, the task would have been much easier, but now, the stallion had seemed to harden. The silence between them grew longer as the Exile obediently followed alongside the King of Olde.

"True to your... Qualifications. I am free of open wounds." Prophet's voice rumbled in his throat more than usual, as he hadn't spoke regularly for quite some time. He didn't know what else to say. There was nothing more to add, unless Vasska could come to see past his homeland. For now, however, giving him respect as a King, not a comrade, seemed the only thing in order. Despite Prophet's origins here, he was certain Vasska would not recall.