Quoted By:
“Hippomedon, see their forms? These foals have been shaped poorly – they are bred of good Argive stock, but even so, such accidents of form are common and unpredictable. It is the will of the gods.”
You pat the foals gently on the noses – they nip at your fingers and their hot breath spills over your hands. Their tongues are very pink! You are strong enough to keep your footing as they push against you – you push them right back, laughing at the effort needed. After a few moments more, the servant comes to pull the foals away – they bleat happily as he does so. You like them.
“These foals are blameless, son – but if they were to survive, they would pass on their deformity to their sons, and on to their sons. In time, the whole line would suffer the effects. In truth, many of these foals cannot survive on their own. It is the same with men – a tainted spring will poison the waters. Better to block it up, let the streams run dry, than spread the poison.” As he speaks, your father presses something into your hand.
A brazen knife.
You look at Father in confusion, and he replies:
“Hippomedon, we must be strong and decisive – ready to sniff out weakness like a hunting hound and cull it at once, no matter the cost. This must be done constantly - every day.”
You nod, unsure – there is a sinking feeling in your gut. The bronze is heavy in your hand.
Father gestures to the servant and the brown foal with wiggling legs is returned. Father shows you how to grip the blade properly, how to position it against the throat.
“You must be quick, and draw up as hard as you can, as you pull.”
And with Father watching, you do it.
Black blood streams forth from the foal’s throat – much much more than you expect, and you drop the knife. The foal flops unsteadily, collapsing against you – your hands and chest are now warm and sticky. The foal’s mouth is open, its lips curling – a whisper of a shriek is escaping from its frayed throat. You know that it is in pain - crying out, you desperately try to hold the wound shut with your hands, but the blood flows like a river - hot droplets spray across your face and mouth. The foal is thrashing wildly, knocking against you as you try to save it - but suddenly falls to the earth.
Its eyes are motionless.
You step back. Your eyes are open very wide, the scent of blood invades your mouth and nose. You know at once that the foal is dead – its warm blood drying on your flesh. Father watches you close.
>okay, /qst/ - can boy Hippo keep it together? this is essentially a morale check, and will be match or roll under the check. As an Argive prince, his WILL is 4 (better than some commoner adults!). Normally, I would call for two rolls here, but Hippomedon's father is present as a stabilizing influence, so I'll grant a bonus die.
>I need THREE rolls of dice+1d20. At least one 4 means Hippomedon keeps his bearings and Father continues...
