//------------------------------//
// Purpose 
// Story: In Victory, We Are the Losers 
// by daOtterGuy 
//------------------------------//

Rockhoof listened. Small animals ran about in the undergrowth. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. He breathed deeply, in and out.

“There’s someone out there. Listen harder.”

“Gimme time, Nike,” Rockhoof said.

“You might not have it, Rockhoof.” A small yellow Breezie zipped to his other ear. Nike was all sharp angles, an oddity of her race. “If you don’t hear them  before they appear, then it might be the last thing you hear.”

A grunt. “I know.”

“If you knew, then you would have already heard it.”

Refocusing his efforts to his task, he perked his ears and strained to listen for the telltale notes that went against the natural cadence of the forest.

The unnatural crunch of leaves under too heavy a weight. The sound of a bowstring being pulled taut. The rattle of unsteady, nervous breathing as someone prepared to attack.

“There’s the rat,” Nike hissed, a gleeful note in her voice.

Rockhoof lifted himself off the ground. A massive frame of corded muscle protected by slabs of jagged rock that grew from his body naturally. Laurel was entangled within his braided mane. Scars of battles past and scorch marks from long ago injuries littered patches of bare skin, bright white against short-cut grey fur.

He pulled his mighty shovel back, an instrument of death blessed to be at a size best suited for him to use, then forward in a sweeping motion toward his unknown assailant.

An arrow pierced between the gaps in his rocky armour. He barely felt it.

The sharp edge of his shovel sliced through the trees. A scream, then spurts of blood splattered the landscape, bringing about an early red autumn.

A quick inspection of the aftermath found the bisected corpse of a mare in armour of grey and green colours. Her heraldry was that of a black sun upon an open book.

“This one is dressed the same as the last three,” Rockhoof remarked. “Mayhaps I have made an enemy.”

“All of the greats do so,” Nike replied.

“I donnae recall who would garner such hatred for me. I am no one.”

“You are someone,” Nike corrected. “A champion, and one that demands respect and fear in equal measure. These attackers are just more losers that are jealous of your strength. Unimportant in the grand scheme of things, especially since we need to deal with the important thing.” She flitted in front of Rockhoof, a wide sharp-toothed grin on her face. “You have won, therefore, you will now receive your reward.”

Rockhoof had become accustomed to Nike’s blessings. What was once burning agony, as muscle snapped and rebuilt itself, was now nothing more than a smouldering heat that coursed through his frame as more strength  was piled onto his massive body. After so many blessings, the uncomfortableness had almost become enjoyable. A welcome sign that he had continued to fulfill his purpose.

He meandered back to his post before the cave entrance. His village’s heraldry, faded but still strong, remained propped up against a nearby rock, signifying who controlled this territory.

“Guard the entrance,” Rockhoof intoned. “None shall pass.”

“None shall pass,” Nike agreed.

She settled into his mane, content for now with the bloody violence that had occurred.

He flopped onto the ground with a loud resounding thump that shook the trees. He was nearly larger than the cave entrance itself, after so many blessings. Victory had given him what he wanted for so long, but it was secondary to what he needed.

Rockhoof had a purpose. And he would fulfill it.