Post by leukristic on May 5, 2020 1:50:30 GMT -6
breathe easy take your aim boy
ain't nobody gonna save you
so what you gonna do?
The bit against his tongue is a constant, harsh reminder of the ways that his life has changed since that fateful patrol.
Beneath his skin, his rage simmers, buried down deep in his ribcage -- he knows better than to lash out when not in the arena however, has learned how futile his hooves and teeth are when he has neither teke or his blessing to back them up, when he is viewed as little more than an object to be owned and commanded. His skin still bears the scars of each and every time he had rebelled in the beginning, had tried to claw back his own humanity to no avail, no matter how stubbornly he might have fought Brontide’s intentions for him.
He was a muzzled dog, but he was not broken -- if given a chance to slip his bindings, he would seize it with both hooves, and he’s sure that his master is well-aware of this fact. Always, always a bit between his teeth or a collar around his neck, reminding him of his place in the world, reminding him to keep his fury contained until he was set free in the arena to maim for the roaring crowds.
Even so, he still bares his teeth in the facade of a smile when he sees his owner coming towards where he has been repeatedly pummeling his hooves into one of the training dummies, sweat slicked across his flanks and his cropped mane sticking to the sides of his neck. He wonders if Brontide sees the true meaning behind the smile, if the slaver remembers that most species bare their teeth as a sign of aggression, as a warning display, as a reminder that their clenched jaws can and would open up a yielding throat.
He wonders if Brontide thinks of that every time he smiles to the slaver, lips pulled tight against the bit between his teeth and hatred in his eyes.
"You're up early."
Beneath his skin, his rage simmers, buried down deep in his ribcage -- he knows better than to lash out when not in the arena however, has learned how futile his hooves and teeth are when he has neither teke or his blessing to back them up, when he is viewed as little more than an object to be owned and commanded. His skin still bears the scars of each and every time he had rebelled in the beginning, had tried to claw back his own humanity to no avail, no matter how stubbornly he might have fought Brontide’s intentions for him.
He was a muzzled dog, but he was not broken -- if given a chance to slip his bindings, he would seize it with both hooves, and he’s sure that his master is well-aware of this fact. Always, always a bit between his teeth or a collar around his neck, reminding him of his place in the world, reminding him to keep his fury contained until he was set free in the arena to maim for the roaring crowds.
Even so, he still bares his teeth in the facade of a smile when he sees his owner coming towards where he has been repeatedly pummeling his hooves into one of the training dummies, sweat slicked across his flanks and his cropped mane sticking to the sides of his neck. He wonders if Brontide sees the true meaning behind the smile, if the slaver remembers that most species bare their teeth as a sign of aggression, as a warning display, as a reminder that their clenched jaws can and would open up a yielding throat.
He wonders if Brontide thinks of that every time he smiles to the slaver, lips pulled tight against the bit between his teeth and hatred in his eyes.
"You're up early."
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