#CONTENT FOR ALL OF US STARVING RANCHER FANS

[andyling]

GUYS GO WATCH THIS AMAZING TEAM RANCHER ANIMATIC THAT WAS DONE BY MY FRIEND @ _biacami_ ON TWITTER THEY ARE SO COOL AND SO IS THEIR ANIMATIC 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lPEhKUtZ4Ts

[ruinousrealms]

The Very Strange Horse

Whiskey Buck stood alone in the darkened barn, sniffing the lock on his pen. It had been almost a week since the owners of the ranch took the rest of the horses, loaded them up with tack and saddle and led them away; They didn't even spare the chestnut stallion a final glance as they swung the barn doors shut, the heavy latch slamming down outside. Usually, that was meant to keep the doors from swinging open in a windstorm, and there had been similar noises - A roar on the first day, and the ground shook; The second, a distant crashing like the thunder of hooves on hard-packed soil. Engines were a common sound, but since the barn was the furthest building from the road, he couldn't tell if they were coming or going.

Since then, the only sounds were the chirping birds, and the usual creaking of the ancient timbers of the barn, which had been built in the days of his grandsire, a great showhorse named Big Zadok, tales of whom were still told around the salt lick by young colts.

Lately, there had been new tales circulating around the barn, rumors of war, whispered tales of marching armies and distant apocalypse. Nobody knew what to make of them, not even Whiskey, who was one of the older horses at the ranch, being almost twenty-five in human years. Though his knees creaked and his back ached from long years under the saddle, the stallion wasn't yet ready to go Behind The Shed, where his sire and dam had gone many years previous, to join the Great Rodeo. He was content to stand in his pen, munching on oats and enjoying the breeze whenever the horses were let out to the pasture.

Food had been growing scarcer lately, even before the humans and the others disappeared; The hay bales grew smaller and smaller, the feedbags fewer and farther between, until everybody in the barn had given up complaining, simply sitting and listening to their grumbling stomachs. Sometimes, a horse was taken away and never seen again. Now they were all gone, and he was still there. It was a mystery that was destined to remain as one.

Whiskey Buck hadn't seen them in five days, and hadn't eaten in two, since he gnawed the last of the rotting hay from the floor of his pen. His stomach had long since stopped twisting and turning from hunger, and he'd given up on the chance of escape - He was too old to jump it, and the stall too well-built for him to break through. Even if he could get past the padlocked gate, there was no way he'd be able to push through the barn door, not with that heavy beam holding it shut from the outside. So it was that Whiskey Buck, a fine old riding horse, sat alone in the dark and starved.

It was in the midst of a dark afternoon that the doors opened. Whiskey Buck instinctively shut his eyes against the sudden flood of blazing sunlight; For the past days, his only source of light had been a single skylight in the hay loft, filling the barn with a faint luminescence. Now, squinting, he could just barely make out the forms of three humans - Had the ranchers returned? If so, where were the rest of the horses? He didn't care, he was just eager to see something, anything, his stomach twisting at the prospect of food. They carried big sacks over their shoulders - Oats, perhaps, or barley? He was particularly a fan of barley, the way the little kernels popped between his teeth... Though that this point, he'd take anything that was presented to him.

These weren't normal humans, at least, not like any of the humans he'd ever known - The ranch was run by a staff of muscular, hardy men and women, with firm bodies and broad shoulders, people whose every step commanded respect. The tourists, conversely, were almost entirely overweight, waddling around with smug self-assurance, and eyeing the horses with a mixture of fright and fascination. Once on your back, one of the riders would lead the horse around, doing the same few basic tricks, walking, staying, turning around, and jumping over little obstacles...

The memories of warm summer days spent riding little circles around the ring were truly sweet ones, but it had been a long time since the summertime, and normally, the riders would've started training the horses again in preparation for tourist season, which couldn't have been more than a few weeks away. Instead, they'd all grown worried and snappy, arguing with one another nonstop for days prior to their ultimate leaving. Those memories weren't so sweet, however, so he turned back to the humans.

These humans were neither riders nor tourists. They had the same general shape, four limbs, a long, upright torso, a little oval-shaped head, but that was where the similarities ended. Instead of the upright, confident pose he was used to, these people walked slowly and carefully, holding long sticks in their hands and shining little torches across the barn, as if hunting for a lost calf. The bags on their backs weren't feedsacks, but big green backpacks, and as his eyes adjusted to the new light, he saw that instead of the customary plaid shirt and jeans, these humans wore mottled green outfits, with head-hugging hats with no brim.

One of them, a man, judging by the shape of his body, happened to glance into the corner stall where Whiskey Buck stood, shining his light directly into the horse's eyes. Buck let out a whinny and shut his eyes, too weak to properly protest, or even turn away from the blinding light.

"Holy shit!" He shouted, rushing over to the stallion with the same eager giddiness as some of the younger tourists. All trace of exhaustion disappeared from his face as he tugged on the gate, and finding it locked, snipped through the padlock with a pair of wirecutters. The door swung open, and the stallion stood there, shaking his head, before taking his first step outside of the stall in days.

"You want to ride the horsey?" Another one, a woman, didn't even turn around, shining her flashlight into the tool and tack boxes stacked against the far wall, "And how are you going to keep it fed, huh? And watered?" Her voice was hard and cynical, and though Whiskey couldn't understand the words, something about her tone put him on edge, "The second somebody sees you on that thing, they'll shoot it and eat it. Better we do that ourselves."

The man's expression fell, but he offered no protest.

"Sorry, boy," He whispered, running a gloved hand along the stallion's cheek, "But we need to eat. At least you won't need to suffer anymore."

His tone was gentle and kind, like that of a child, in awe at seeing such a majestic beast for the first time, or the vet whenever a mare was giving birth. There was something else about it, something in his eyes that unnerved him just as much as the woman's tone. It sounded a bit like the rancher when it came time to lead someone to Behind The Shed. He was old, but even now, hungry and miserable, he wasn't yet ready to meet Big Zadok and his foresires. No, there was still a hint of strength hidden away in the old horse, somewhere deep down, like a lantern that still flickers after most of the oil has run out. He was running on fumes, but even that was better than simply keeling over and submitting to whatever fate these new humans might wish upon him.

A strange urge came over the stallion as he stared at the human, their eyes meeting in the darkness. Something unknown instinct, utterly alien to the herbivore, seemed to awaken from unfathomable depths in his mind. Humans gave horses food - This was a simple fact of life. Where did food come from? He couldn't say, he'd never known life outside of the Sesqua Valley Dude Ranch. This human was big and juicy, shaped a little bit like an overripe apple, his favorite snack. It took only the slightest leap in logic for him to conclude, in his half-starved delirium, that humans were food - And the rest came naturally.

Lowering his head and nickering, the stallion made as if he were asking for a pet, and the human obliged, raising a hand... And Whiskey opened his mouth and clamped his teeth around the man's wrist. The howl he let out alerted the others, and he struggled to pull free, bashing against the horse's head with his flashlight. The stallion was used to the agony of hunger, however, and such physical blows did nothing to loosen his grip.

The man's writhing fingers brushed against his tongue, and he found himself enjoying the taste of blood seeping from where his flat-topped teeth had broken through the skin. One of the humans, another male, rushed over and began hammering on the horse's nose as well. There was a crunch as his grip grew tighter, and then, suddenly, the man fell away, reeling on the floor and shrieking as he clutched the bloody stump of his wrist. For a moment, the others seemed too shocked to move, and Whiskey Buck just stood there, placidly chewing his prize. The bones were hard to crunch through, but he managed to grind them into a fine, marrowy paste, which he swallowed with the same gusto as if it were a handful of oats.

The man's hand tasted good, leaving a pleasant taste in his mouth, but his stomach was still grumbling from all the days he'd spent without food. He needed more. The wounded man writhed around, screaming coarse words in his comrade's face, who was only trying to help him up.

The man crouched down, grabbing his friend by the arm and struggling to haul him to his feet. He'd taken off his little round hat, revealing a head covered in closely-cropped hair. There were little bald spots here and there, marked with clusters of quivering reddish blisters. It wasn't as appetizing as the other guy's hand, but he was in no position to discriminate. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, his eyes growing smaller and beadier, as his pupils grew to eclipse his brown retinas.

His flat herbivore teeth stretched out, growing long and jagged, with razor-sharp points that cracked through the man's skull like a knife through paper. He didn't even scream, simply letting out a half-choked sigh as his body went limp, which was just fine by Whiskey Buck. The man's skull folded before his teeth, and his body fell over his friend, pinning him to the ground. He struggled to push him off, screaming and cursing as the carnivorous stallion stepped over him to lap up the remains of the man's brain from the hay-strewn ground. his tongue grew long and pointed, covered in hairy little bristles that latched onto whatever they touched, bringing whole mouthfuls of warm gray matter.

The stallion's hooves were starting to feel funny, a bit tingly, kind of like whenever he was being reshoed. Looking down, he saw his hooves stretching out to the sides, the steel shoes creaking and groaning as the keratin they were attached to began to change. He lifted one, and watched as the nails slid out one by one, clattering to the ground next to the struggling man's head, followed by the shoe, which was deformed as if someone had tried to bend it back on itself. His hooves weren't really hooves anymore, they were more like paws, with three long black talons curling out. The man's screams were starting to fray his nerves, and slowly, deliberately, he brought his massive paw down on the man's head, muffling his shrieks as he applied more and more pressure, until-

There was a sharp crack, and something hit Whiskey Buck in the chest; Looking down, he saw nothing but a faint ripple in his flesh, which faded like that of a pebble thrown in a pond. It came from the woman's stick, he realized, a long black tube with a little box attached to it, from which another flash and explosion bellowed. The stallion didn't feel a long, though 'stallion' hardly described the beast anymore. His fur was falling off in clumps, his gaunt body expanding with thick, well-defined muscle. He was beyond the size of a mere draft horse, his lengthening legs pushing him away from the floor, closer and closer to the rafters. From his perspective, the woman looked like a child, and her gun was about as threatening as a wet mop. While the man's head popped beneath his clawed appendage, he took a step forward, causing the entire barn to rattle on its foundations.

"Fuck this!" The woman shrieked, firing uselessly at the advancing beast, "Fuck this!"

Throwing her gun down, she turned to run, but she didn't make it halfway to the door before the beast's paw swept out, bowling her off her feet. She didn't scream, which was nice, since the beast's ears were more sensitive than before, picking up every little sound, the creaking of the barn timbers, the soft scuffing of her hands against the floor as she struggled to crawl away. She dragged herself along on her elbows, her legs as stiff as boards, and there was a funny kink in the small of her back.

Lowering his head, Whiskey Buck snorted, and she paused as the hot air blew against her head. She muttered something, maybe a curse, maybe a prayer. The beast didn't really care, simply snapping her up in his jaws and swallowing the woman whole, like the morsel she was.

Stepping out into the blazing sun, the former stallion glanced around the barren farmyard, dimly noting the familiar landmarks - The ranch house, the guest cottages, the various paddocks for different events. These were his familiar haunts, but he no longer felt any particular interest in running around the competition pen, or letting children sit on his back at the hitching post. His stomach grumbled, and he sniffed the air, his nostrils wide as he gulped down the cool spring air. It didn't carry the same pleasant odor as he was used to - No, this was the sickly-sweet smell of decay, something he'd very rarely experienced, aside from that time those raccoons got stuck in the hay loft. This smell was much stronger, and he followed it around the barn and down the hill to the toolshed, the very one that legend told was the gateway to the Great Rodeo.

The area around the shed was strewn with the bodies of horses in a state of advanced decomposition. Some were bloated with gas, while others had already burst, exposing their organs to little feasting creatures. Flies swarmed so thickly that it was hard to make out the markings of any of them, rats and crows and a veritable army of tiny red ants digging into the decaying meat. Despite his hunger, Whiskey Buck left the carrion feast behind, trotting back up the hill and toward the road, whereupon horses were forbidden to tread. His gigantic paw, easily the size of a human itself, thudded heavily on the asphalt, which cracked beneath its weight. Down the road, he knew, was Town, a place full of humans and other creatures. He'd been taken there a few times as a young colt, showing off to the crowds in parades and during festivals. Now, those memories, dim as a horse's memories are, showed him an unending feast. If dragons could smile, Whiskey Buck surely would have, taking his first steps down the empty highway.

Whiskey Buck had been many things in his life. A workhorse, a showhorse, and toward the end, a saddle horse for tourists. Now, standing at the very brink of reality itself, the stallion had broken free of the entropy which had gripped the rest of the universe and become a carnivore. It's true what they say, you can't keep a good horse down.