[One minute, Rhys is flying out the back of a caravan as it pelts over the desert away from a bandit racetrack. The next, he's slamming into the side of what he later decides isn't actually a bull, but which very much feels like a bull while he's slamming into it. And he's no longer in the desert; he's in some kind of city. And the roar of the caravan's engine has been replaced by the chatter of a market crowd.
To say he's confused is kind of an understatement.
The not-really-a-bull swings around, snorting angrily at Rhys. Rhys has seen too many movies not to know exactly how this is going to end. Slowly - very, very slowly - he gets to his feet, the bare striped sock on his right foot squelching into what he really hopes is just a puddle.]
Rhys | Tales from the Borderlands | 2 for 300, Bob.
To say he's confused is kind of an understatement.
The not-really-a-bull swings around, snorting angrily at Rhys. Rhys has seen too many movies not to know exactly how this is going to end. Slowly - very, very slowly - he gets to his feet, the bare striped sock on his right foot squelching into what he really hopes is just a puddle.]
Good horse - bull - uh, thing. Nice horse bull thing.