Vegetation crumpled beneath his vermilion hooves. The shade of those daggers was merely natural, 'for the blood of others rarely met them. Hardly was he weighed as large, but rather as a stocky bull. With curt brachiums and an abnormally wide chest, his body was to scale with itself but not to others. Though he had the ancestry of a quarter horse, he merely appeared as a short mustang cross to something small and insignificant. it's the smallest ones who make the difference, they always say.

His barrel was rounded well with his irrationally wide chassis. His croup rounded well into vast valleys of brawny hind quarters. A plump strawberry, if you will. Cuts of muscle ripped through him, giving him hills of hefty muscles. His finespun jaw line squeezed unwillingly as his lips parted. The strawberry seemed to almost burst with trembling as his body quivered in response to a frigid scream. He wasn't malicious, hardly at all. Too willing and social, if it may be said.

The sun bit at him with irrational tastes, hungry for the sane. The less dominant, less aggressive. There's a difference between dominant and down right pissy. Gradually, his wide nape fell to the rocky earth. Diminutive cresent narises sent shattered dirt away as he examined the new land. A hoarse snarl grumbles up from within his pharynx before being suffocated back down. Ahh, the sweet smell of girls. The naughty geek, don't you think? Times were changing for them all.

And as the zephyr across the valley rose to meet him, he simply picked up his pace. His silenced rattler flagged behind, a scarlet flame of delirium stalking after him. Faster and faster, he lammed away from the winds that whispered horrible dreams to him. Entangled locks of encolure stung his short, thick nape like a scorpion. Precisouly. A scorpion.

Maybe that's what he was. The posion of a scorpion. Not all posions all lethal, right? Dip a strawberry in scorpion posion. Luscious.