The Rise of the Centaurs

Stefan hides behind a tree as a sloven troop of satyrs approach, singing and drinking with two crying unicorns in tow.

Times had changed, unicorns were now seen as weak, idealistic, and belonging to an old world of useless magic and wonder; there was no place for colourful dreams in the new world — which belonged to the satyrs, after they had seized it with strength and rage, believing it their birthright.

Many centaurs did nothing as the tyrants destroyed everything that was timeless and great, but Stefan wasn’t going be one of them; he steadies his hooves and draws back his bow — the obsidian arrow quivers and catches a glimmer of light as it peaks from the shadows, where hundreds of other arrows wait, ready to reclaim the world of magic and wonder for the unicorns and the dreamers.

© 2017 Occasional Dreams
In response to: Three Line Tales, Week Fifty-Seven
Image by: Fleur Treurniet

Many thanks to Sonya for hosting Three Line Tales.


6 thoughts on “The Rise of the Centaurs

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