Quoted By:
You stand there, looking up at Father, and fire licks at the inside of your heart. You feel unsteady on your feet, your head swims, your eyes water. A tear rolls down your cheek, but you stifle your sobs. You look to the bright blue sky, hear the buzzing of insects, smell the copper scent of horseblood in the air. Father is speaking to you calmly:
“Peace, Hippomedon – peace. This is a difficult thing – to firm your resolve and act. Strength must be won and held firmly.” Father approaches to kneel, and brings his face to yours – the nose and angular features that you know so well, the faint lines of his forehead only just beginning to reveal middle-age. Dark circles ring under your father’s eyes, marring his face. He says soothing words with his mouth, and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but his eyes are flat, and his mouth twists strangely as he speaks. You don’t trust his hands - he watches you, measures you. You resist the urge to sob or run or empty your breakfast onto Father’s sandals, and only just barely manage to do so.
After a long minute, your head clears, and Father rises again, seemingly satisfied.
“Hippomedon – Horse-Lord - one day, Arion and his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons will all be yours to command - and a crown will rest upon your head.” You are baffled by this - only your uncle King Adrastus has a crown. Will everyone get a crown? He points to the brazen knife, in the dirt, and after a second’s hesitation, you pick it up. Father motions to the servant once more.
The black foal seems to sense the danger – it bleats in outrage and terror as the servant drags it closer. Its eyes meet yours, betrayal indelibly pressing the moment into your mind. Your man-self watches from above, powerless to stop the memory, knowing that your Father is in the right. Again, Father helps you hold the knife against the black foal’s throat, even as it bucks and rocks stiffly from side-to-side. It begins to scream – a yowling cry like a baby. Your hands are shaking – your fingers are numb.
“Now, Hippomedon!”
The blade slashes of its own accord – black blood sprays, and this time, you step back quickly. The foal topples to the ground, and its hooves scrawl wild loops into the earth. You watch as it strains to right itself, wracks its body, tries to hold the wound shut against the dirt.
All fruitless efforts – it lies still.
Father places a hand on your shoulder, and you turn to him – his eyes search you again, as you grapple with the deed...
>okay, /qst/ - another set of THREE dice+1d20 rolls. Hippomedon survived the first morale test here, and the killing of the second foal is less shocking as a result, so I'm assigning a +2 context bonus. So 6 and under is the number to beat.
