Snippet #1581173

“You’ve got to be shitting me… how do you expect me to house this… this… THING?”

There was a tumultuous yelling outside of the gladiatorial stables as a man stood in front of the main doors with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a man that was used to living in luxury. His hands were soft, never touched a sword, his eyes were cold. He made his money on the blood that soaked the arena and this new creature was going to bleed him dry. He knew it. “It’s going to eat more than it’s worth! Can’t you sell it to the salt mines?”

The answer was too soft to be made out.

“I DON’T CARE! I DON’T WANT IT IN THE WITH THE OTHER GLADIATORS!”

The yard fell silent. Everything stilled as his words echoed. The man could be heard swearing as the door was thrown open. “Fine! FINE!” he screamed, “if this is what it comes to, fine! but if it eats everything, I will kill it myself!”

clip-clop-clip-clop---

The steady four-beat moved over the hard floors as the portly overseer led in the creature, jerking at the reins that were around its neck, forcing the creature to stay at its shoulder. “Fucking thing probably doesn’t understand,” the overseer muttered. “Where am I going to put you?” he asked the creature. He led it down past other teams that stared openly at the liminal beast. Such an expensive creature and it was in the ring. What had it done? What team was it going to be placed in? Where was it going to sleep?

The creature was a domesticated Centaur. They were taller than their wild brethren, their colors varied more, and they were built for speed and endurance. They were the perfect blend of animal and man. The man-half reached the nominally impressive height of 5’8. Tall for his breed. His hair was dark brown, tousled around his pale face. His eyes were pale, nearly white, a rare color for any horse breed, especially those that were the racers. His chest was devoid of any clothing, showing his lean but muscled chest, his strong arms and broad shoulders. The brand of his first owner shown on his neck, his mouth had hard scars from the harsh bit that had fallen from his mouth. His human torso blended seamlessly into the ebony flesh of the horse lower half. Scarred at the sides, the ribs on the horse had started to show. His withers had a splash of white, as if someone had thrown paint over him.

The overseer stopped in front of Bliss and tossed the reins down on her bed. “Take it. Your new teammate. Meet Cutlass-Prince,” he sneered as he patted the shoulder of the creature. “Gods help you, you’re going to bloody need it,” he said. His eyes roamed over Bliss’ body, lingering here and there. “Watch yourself around this one. You know what they say about Centaurs,” his voice dripped with insinuation before he turned to walk away.

Cutlass shifted and kicked out with his back leg, catching hoof to the man’s knee. Perverse pleasure shown in his blue eyes as the man’s leg bent at an impossible angle and shattered. The centaur turned and glared at the man who writhed in pain. “You are more likely to harm a woman than I am,” he said smoothly before he turned back to the woman who had been tossed his reins. “Excuse me, Miss.” He bent down to pick up his reins and lifted them up, removing them before he tossed them to the floor. “You’ll want that back,” he said to the overseer, “I am not allowed to own property, tack included.”

He shifted and tried to figure out where he’d lay. He was a large creature and there wasn’t much room for the human/humanoid creatures. He sighed. The world was not meant for a centaur. He stayed standing, his tail flicking to the side to brush off a fly that had landed on him. He didn’t comment further on why he had been made a member of the team, or what his strengths were. It was clear that one blow from him was enough to shatter bone, but that was the same from any horse or centaur. He wished that he had his guitar, that would be enough to soothe him. Instead, all he could do was try to keep his mind off of what would be coming the next day. Fighting. He hated fighting, but he would because that was what he was told to do. “Don’t worry Miss,” he spoke quietly to Bliss. “Whatever you’ve heard about Centaurs… we can’t be as bad as some of the humans.” He spoke well, for what a person would consider a ‘beast’. His voice was rich, but had a grave undertone to it, as if he’d seen more sadness and hardship and was used to his lot in life.

His was a broken spirit in all sense of the word. A centaur had to be broken before he’d willingly race in that sport, before he’d agree to carry a human on his back. Gone were the proud creatures they had been, in their place was a misunderstood, and vilified creature who wanted nothing more than sweet grass and someone to itch the scratch that was at his back, between his shoulderblades.

He’d give anything for someone to do that for him.