Dead Centaur

Dead Centaur

Without his beloved trident, Centaur was left with much less power and thus began to slowly die. Many a solemn battle left him flayed and bruised. How many of his magic antlers could he use to fend off the forces of undead that scathed across olympus without suffering mortal pain? Mostly all of them were utilised to bring a great dent into the seemingly unending, undead onslaught.

What with their master slain by Athena, she too suffered great hardship whence invoked into the black mares decaying body, she also needed to tap the resources of darkness to give her strength in order to hunt down and destroy Breanna. So forth Centaur used his antlers to somewhat get them through. The only adverse effect to this endeavour was evil. 

Evil powers surged through them both as they lay waste to the hordes. The blood bringing them sustenance whilst the hordes impending doom withered at the disappearance of the Trident. For if the Trident were to be given requiem over olympus surely the world would be at peril. An unending saga of much less majesty than a great war of the gods, for it was so; no trident meant rusted armour.

What fate would Centaur impose upon his enemies? That they must seek solace in the blood filled moats and blackened fields. That the undead soldiers and battle horses sought only to destroy the good that Ebony and Centaur so forced upon them. They fought hard and for many a time such that Centaur, at the frontline would suffer much hardship. 

In the darkness that enveloped the now dead Olympus every night, as Centaur searched hard, a crazy horse came to his audience. Its burning red eyes bore upon him, mocking his every action, insulting him with every bloody breath. "Iye hate centaur,...hahahahahahahahah. Iya hate him." Snorting out spits o blood that drooled down to his licking jaws. "Iy hate him". Over and over again he would mock the Black Centaur and he would not go away. Whence Centaur would smite him, like a coward he would run away cackling to himself. 

This frustrated Centaur, this Crazy Horse spoke in riddles, somehow thwarting his supreme reflex and unheralded magic. Like a test he wanted to know what it was that it needed to digest and spit out towards him. Was it an antler that he had disposed of? If so it was of use to him, as for some strange reason it's attraction to him was harmless. 

In a bout of tact, Centaur chased the Crazy Horse down one moonless night, following him into a great blood lake. As he gambled on its ludicrous attempt to wade towards the centre of the lake, he immersed himself into the deep black blood. 

The putrid bottom licked at his hooves, and the veins of Olympus bleed into his decaying lungs. The Crazy Horse sauntered onwards, kicking into a crimson void. Like truths be said, rusted weapons and stinking armour meant an epic battle was fought, and the prize was immortal. Centaur could feel the power of his beloved. His grinning gullet laughed a bitter grin, like the flames of an abyss had opened up he grasped his Trident, and thanking his little psychotic friend, in dark praises, emerged from the lake awakened to a new morning, to be bathed with the death of the undead.