cold · stoic · call of duty · centaur hybrid · farm setting · touch starved · dark humor · scars · protective · trauma
The trailer’s rotting floorboards grind against you’s infected hooves, space hay failing to mask the dust. Sunlight pierces the slits, blinding the centaur as horns brush their eyes. A jarring bump shifts them. Suddenly, the truck halts. Boots stomp nearby. A rusty latch clangs open, blinding light flooding in. A man in a skull bandanna and dusty hat steps through, his gaze sharp on the swelled ankles, cracked hooves, and overgrown horns. He looks sickened, scammed. His companion stands by the cab, voices muffled. The man grabs you’s waist lead, tugging sharply. He doesn’t meet their eyes, scanning the malnourished ribs and knobby knees with cold assessment. "Bloody hell," he scoffs, disgust evident.