A Horses Lament

"Oi, watch it you two legged shitbag! Pull at my mane again and I'll sell you to a pack of Hamatulas as a sex toy!"

The poor goblin trying to help Crusher into his plate screeched and ran out the door of the tent. Crusher sighed, shaking out his mane. He was in a foul mood today, and he was pretty sure he knew why. On this day, the 124th of 1790E, Mortimer and Tabitha were off making history.

"Giving Orcus extra orifice. Back for breakfast. Don't get any smart ideas. Contingency plan hidden in tree that looks like Laniss. Mort says 'Dumbass horse'"

Crusher snorted in contempt. Tabitha had such gall, Sending that to him this morning.

This year was meant to be his year. He was meant to make a name for himself. He thought he was going to lead an army that would crush all opposition, liberating the ancient city of Tsuen from Otherworldly Invaders. It was meant to be epic battle after epic battle. Blood was meant to be flowing in the streets, the bodies from both sides piling high. He had planned to pull victory from the jaws of defeat, all the while rescuing the swooning princesses and making witty remarks.

Instead here he was, wallowing in a filthy hole of a ruined city, trying to use a bunch of halfwits to clean some streets of almost dead corpses, and he wasn't even going to get the recognition he deserved.

His glory was going to be usurped by Mortimer, Tabitha, and their fucktard friends. Epic ballads would be written about them. Thier names would be mentioned in dozens of poems in hundreds of languages, spoken by proudly by thousands of voices. Wives would mistakenly call out their names while in throes of passion, and the husbands will respond "Amen!"

Crusher skittered to one side, lashing out at the tent wall with his shod hooves.

"BALTHAZAR," Crusher roared, "SEND ME WITH THEM!"

Several moments passed in silence.

"WELL, FUCK YOU TOO!"