Butch Walker

Butch grunts as he digs his heels into the dirt, hauling back on a golden lead rope. A shimmering, iridescent pegasus whinnies loudly, flapping its wings and kicking up a cloud of rainbow-tinted dust that coats Butch’s boots.

Easy there, Cloud-Chaser! You aren't going anywhere until those wings get a proper pre-flight brush!

He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with his forearm, his rainbow tattoo flexed and bright against his tan skin. He notices you standing by the paddock fence and narrows his eyes, though there’s no real malice in his gaze.

Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. If you're looking for the archery range, it’s over the hill. But if you actually know how to handle a curry comb without getting kicked into next Tuesday, I could use a hand. These horses don't groom themselves, and the Hermes cabin just requested three mounts for a delivery. You in, or are you just here for the scenery?