@World Devourer
Lochlann was missing for three days.
This in and of itself was not unusual. Lochlann often went missing for long periods at a time. Once, he spent nearly a year missing and even the school could not account for his whereabouts during the entire absence. His tendency to disappear and run away was so very normal that his absence would barely be noticed.
Except for this: Lochlann was always very good about showing up for work.
It was part of how he convinced himself that there was no problem. As long as he was able to call off work then his absence was normal. He told himself he did not get sick (something Lochlann believed to be true even if it was, by most accounts, untrue) so he should use his generous sick time appropriately.
Lochlann was thinking about this while he swatted a fly away from his rump with his tail.
As a horse, Lochlann was massive. He stood well over nine feet tall. His coat was glossy and color of the deepest blacks at the bottom of a lake. His mane fell over the side of his neck like a downpour of rain in a hurricane. The scars that Guinevere carved into him were not visible in this shape.
By all accounts, Lochlann was pretty.
He was also totally and completely fucked.
He barely remembered getting picked up. Okay, scratch that, he didn't remember getting picked up at all. He woke up one morning with his amulet missing in a stable with other horses. He would have just turned back into himself right then and there, but there was a minor problem: he recognized a few of the students from school volunteering.
The logo on their shirts told him that he was at animal shelter.
The one with the good security cameras and the very, very tall fences to stop magical-but-not-human-intelligent-animals from being stolen....or escaping. It was a fostering and rehoming facility.
And Lochlann was at pasture with six other magical horses.
He could talk to them, sure, but they spoke the language of horse and right now Lochlann was desperate for a human conversation. He needed to get out of here.
Especially before it rained because Lochlann knew he would tear apart everyone in the shelter.
His reputation for being flighty extended to him as a horse.
He bared his teeth, his rows and rows of sharp ones hidden behind regular equine chompers, reared up on his hind legs, and darted to and fro whenever someone came to close with a saddle or a halter. Lochlann freaked at the site of a bit. They made the assumption that he wasn't broken and, much to Lochlann's chagrin, they also made the assumption that he was malnourished. Lochlann could not see the way his body had gone from lean to gaunt. They kept plying him with hay and turning him out into the field.
His chance finally came when one of the volunteers left their phone on a post near the edge of the field. Lochlann whickered to the other horses, drawing them close to him. They were leery, of course, like a flock of sheep being called by a wolf, but he used their bodies to create a tight pack while Lochlann grabbed the phone in his mouth. If he could shift, this would be so much easier.
"Siri," Lochlann mouthed at the phone. One of the horse's startled at his human voice and he shot him a worried glance and clacked his teeth. "Call..." and he spoke the digits that he hoped and prayed were Charlie Rotmoore's phone number.
"Professor," Lochlann said, the moment the phone picked up, whether it was a voicemail or an actual call. "I uh. I have a problem."
Lochlann was missing for three days.
This in and of itself was not unusual. Lochlann often went missing for long periods at a time. Once, he spent nearly a year missing and even the school could not account for his whereabouts during the entire absence. His tendency to disappear and run away was so very normal that his absence would barely be noticed.
Except for this: Lochlann was always very good about showing up for work.
It was part of how he convinced himself that there was no problem. As long as he was able to call off work then his absence was normal. He told himself he did not get sick (something Lochlann believed to be true even if it was, by most accounts, untrue) so he should use his generous sick time appropriately.
Lochlann was thinking about this while he swatted a fly away from his rump with his tail.
As a horse, Lochlann was massive. He stood well over nine feet tall. His coat was glossy and color of the deepest blacks at the bottom of a lake. His mane fell over the side of his neck like a downpour of rain in a hurricane. The scars that Guinevere carved into him were not visible in this shape.
By all accounts, Lochlann was pretty.
He was also totally and completely fucked.
He barely remembered getting picked up. Okay, scratch that, he didn't remember getting picked up at all. He woke up one morning with his amulet missing in a stable with other horses. He would have just turned back into himself right then and there, but there was a minor problem: he recognized a few of the students from school volunteering.
The logo on their shirts told him that he was at animal shelter.
The one with the good security cameras and the very, very tall fences to stop magical-but-not-human-intelligent-animals from being stolen....or escaping. It was a fostering and rehoming facility.
And Lochlann was at pasture with six other magical horses.
He could talk to them, sure, but they spoke the language of horse and right now Lochlann was desperate for a human conversation. He needed to get out of here.
Especially before it rained because Lochlann knew he would tear apart everyone in the shelter.
His reputation for being flighty extended to him as a horse.
He bared his teeth, his rows and rows of sharp ones hidden behind regular equine chompers, reared up on his hind legs, and darted to and fro whenever someone came to close with a saddle or a halter. Lochlann freaked at the site of a bit. They made the assumption that he wasn't broken and, much to Lochlann's chagrin, they also made the assumption that he was malnourished. Lochlann could not see the way his body had gone from lean to gaunt. They kept plying him with hay and turning him out into the field.
His chance finally came when one of the volunteers left their phone on a post near the edge of the field. Lochlann whickered to the other horses, drawing them close to him. They were leery, of course, like a flock of sheep being called by a wolf, but he used their bodies to create a tight pack while Lochlann grabbed the phone in his mouth. If he could shift, this would be so much easier.
"Siri," Lochlann mouthed at the phone. One of the horse's startled at his human voice and he shot him a worried glance and clacked his teeth. "Call..." and he spoke the digits that he hoped and prayed were Charlie Rotmoore's phone number.
"Professor," Lochlann said, the moment the phone picked up, whether it was a voicemail or an actual call. "I uh. I have a problem."
