"Catheryn's right, Alexander," Rialto said, loud voice washing over them, coming suddenly up behind Cat's shoulder - having strolled there, as any foolish being below Cat's level would - and plopping his chin onto it without a second's thought or even bothering to move her hair. An arm hanging off her other shoulder and two identical faces bearing very different expressions. One a smile, the other blasé. He could mimic Cat's, but the moment Cat wore anything less than a face full of scorn, mainly at Rialto, then he was getting out all thirty-six of his knives, because that meant she was possessed. Anyone mortal might find it disconcerting, but they were dealing with immortals and battle-ravaged veterans, now. A coin flipping heads ten times in a row wouldn't make any one of them blink. "You can't just come out and tell them your name, Alexander, that's the first thing they need to target you. Right, Marko?"

He hid none of his preteen enjoyment while dragging out their names through the dirt, and only slightly metaphorically. This was just how they did it in San Creado. If one goes down, you all go down; if not willingly, the others around you hanging onto your ankle to prevent escape. You know, loyalty.

If there was anything to the stranger - the wild eyes, the mess of a five o'clock shadow, the frustration folding itself in every strip of muscle, the horse beside them that could probably fire its own horse catcher - two of the group had homed in on it. Something below the surface simmered, a thin tension as fragile as a bubble.

He tilted his head to the side, blinking at the stranger, before he held up his hand. "Coach, we need a timeout. This one sprained his leg." This one was Marko, who he leaned towards, even more indiscreetly, like team players bowing their heads together, and muttered (downright said, really, with all the subtlety Rialto put into it), "Are we the fucking bitches?"

© MADI

Horses were exceedingly uncommon to find in cities and Michael was pretty excited to see one. His fondest and earliest memories had been from when he was learning to take care of his horses, learning how to brush them, learning how to put on their tack, simply learning how to muck out their stalls.
There had been horses that he'd forged special bonds with, those that he had made an effort to tame and befriend, knowing all too well the brutal force that his father could be if he decided to break a horse. He remembered the trail rides in the early morning, when the air still smelled like dew and the sky was still lit up with a beautiful golden hue.
He remembers sitting quietly on his stallion, watching as a group of young rabbits made their way out of their den for what was likely the first time, their sensitive noses twitching in the sudden cold.

He also remembers the bad. He remembers all of the times that he had been hurt, kicked, bitten, stomped. He remembers the times when his father had decided that his slow but steady progress wasn't enough and forced Michael to watch as he broke in his horses. Michael had watched the spunk, the sweetness, the trust, drain from their eyes, replaced with something broken.

It had been one of those days that Michael had enough and attacked his 'father', the person wasn't even worthy of that title.
He had been in the corral with a sweet yearling colt that day. He had been working to gain his trust for a solid two weeks and it had finally been given. Michael had been over the moon when the colt came to him that day, nuzzling at his pockets and demanding feed. He had been so delighted that he didn't notice the man coming up behind him with the crop.
He had taken the colt before Michael would even protest.

Michael didn't remember the events after that very well, hadn't been cognizant enough to know what was happening around him, wasn't aware enough to hear his mother yelling at him from the house.

All he had known was red.

Michael had beaten his father that day. He had ripped the reins from his hands and crushed him. It was so funny, all the years of beatings and punishments that Michael had endured and he was finally the one giving. The colt was sold a few weeks later, a divorce was filed and Michael left his only home for the last time with a split lip and two black eyes.
He tried not to think of what had happened, tried not to think of how he hadn't been able to control himself.

Michael would be making his way towards the group at the moment, a smile upon his face. he was just a teensy bit intimidated by the group of people standing there but there was a horse. He was going to see the horse.

"Hey, Sir!" He'd call out as he neared, falling into formation beside Marko. The lone human of San Creado would approach Marko from the back, attempting to casually sling his arms around his neck and rest his chin upon his shoulder. they were friends, why not? He'd watch the group from his spot for a second before piping up.
"What's happenin? The dude with the horse seems t' want somethin'a us." He wanted a deal of sorts and some deals could go so badly.

Michael would cringe for a second, struggling to push away memories of the 'deals' that he had once held with his 'father'. Michael still had the scars on his lips from them, the scars on his temples and forehead that he purposefully grew his hair out to cover. They weren't obvious unless you had a very keen eye and they definitely weren't something that Michael attention drawn to.

/ didn't mean to write at length so much, haha.

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