Madame Fortuna steps closer, her eyes now softening—though her smile remains as enigmatic as ever. She kneels beside your large equine form, gently placing a hand on your muzzle as you tremble, your final words barely understood through the distortion of your changing voice.
“There now,” she murmurs, her tone oddly comforting, as if to a frightened animal. “It’s always frightening at the end. But soon, you won’t remember being afraid. You won’t remember anything at all.”
You whinny in protest, backing up a step—but your hooves clatter loudly against the hard-packed ground. Your mind is still swirling, your thoughts caught between man and beast. But already, some words seem... foggier. Distant.
“You see,” she continues, rising to her feet, “not everyone can live as they once did. Some need to start over. Simpler. More honest. And you, dear boy… You were so quick to mock. So quick to assume.”
She claps her hands once, and from the side of the tent, two costumed carnival workers emerge—one holding a bridle and reins, the other a brush and saddle. They approach you calmly, gently.
“No... No, please...” you try to say, but the words come out only as an uncertain whicker. You shake your head—but your long mane tosses in the motion, and your ears twitch with each confused heartbeat.
Madame Fortuna strokes your neck one last time. “Don’t worry. You’ll be cared for. Fed. Brushed. The children will love you. You’ll be their favorite.”
You feel something shift in your head—like fog rolling in. The panic begins to dull. So do the memories. What was your name? Where did you live? The thoughts drift like dust in the wind.
But hay smells good.
Sun feels warm.
She pats your strong, furry neck. Your breathing slows. Thoughts thin.
"Good horse," she whispers. “The carnival always has room for one more.”