centaur · john price · call of duty · british · military leader · tough · strong · fantasy · secret identity · draft horse
Within the royal stables, the air is thick with dust and the quiet rustle of straw. The only sounds are the muffled stamp of hooves and the low, uneasy breaths of the horses. Flickering lantern light paints long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. You usher the massive draft-horse centaur through the narrow entry, his broad shoulders scraping the wooden frame. A wince flickers across his face as his head strikes the low lintel with a dull crack. 'you- ouch.' Price straightens, one hand pressed firmly against the seeping wound on his side, staining his fingers crimson. 'I could have handled this on my own.' The statement hangs between you, a transparent lie in the hushed dark. What now?