Blanton's to Forget - Before Rescue Log 1

His tail whips, a brief breeze from the effort gracing his hocks and barely breaking the heat pounding down on his back. He feels raw.. Lips smacking as he once again makes his way to the water by the fence. He’s unsure why they bothered refilling the water if they were never going to pay more attention to anything else, like whatever is making his skin feel taught like tension wire. Shaking his head doesn’t loosen him up, it only ever made it worse, and he found less movement was better after a few days. He feels tired, barely inspired to trot around the pasture, until night falls: then he feels like he can own the world. A cool wash over his back that kicks his untapped energy into hyperdrive, until he lifts his head and stifles a grunt when his neck feels held in position by abrasive rope, until he takes a swift stride to feel a pull in his knees.

He managed at first, kept his movements subtle, used the cool nights to get in his rounds of the fence. He even kept back his desire to nip at the gelding who -bless him- had no idea how much pain he was in and simply wanted to rest his head upon his back in friendship. He’s not sure what was worse, the sharp sting from the pressure or the raking sensation from the gelding’s whiskers as a squeal had the younger male jerking away.

Then the other stallion was let loose. A sun-bleached black stallion with enough hot blood to make a dish-nose blush. Fights for water. Shoving to gain access to the feed buckets (one of the other few things the two-leggeds bothered to deal with). He was able to guard his gelding friend, but he bore the marks of his labor. At the very least he’s learned to ignore the pull of his skin when he had to dodge and whirl in avoidance of the dark terror. It wasn’t ideal, but the adrenaline from the skirmishes gave him something to do, an outlet for his annoyance. It’s almost a pity his opponent bares very little evidence of his retaliations. The two-legs don’t notice his new marks: Hints of grey skin contrasting his milky fur. He isn’t sure if he cares. He can hold his own, he could manage, maybe one day have the terror treat him with respect. He just had to fight harder, hit harder, bite harder, kick faster, out maneuver, be Better.