I am fortunate to find one so like myself.
Valhalla says nothing, only watches curiously as the ebony mares moves past the dappled gray. She unfurls her wings in earnest, the cool ocean breeze whistling lightly against downy plumes and the silvery fronds of her mane. She listens intently to the narrative of her voice, moving forward as Valhalla answers with her own feminine dialogue.
"Azalea, daughter of the Lionheart? A pleasure." There isn't much of a resemblance, really, regardless of the mutual achromatic coat. But then again, the fair maiden recalls little of the ebony stallion, and for all she knows this little black mare could be his spitting image.
Azalea proceeds in her speech, and the gray mare waits until she has finished. She flicks an ear toward the ocean's rolling crests, the lean muscles in her foreleg pulling taut as she conveyed the appendage to lurch forward. She nears the thrashing waves as the ocean's liquid lips kissed the golden sand and coerced the coarse grains below to whirl through her saline arms.
The pale damsel lowers her chiseled face to the ocean's crystal touch, the sapphire curls glittering in the noon sun as if threaded with a million scintillating diamonds. After a moment of contemplation, she leaps with blithe unconcern into the wondrous blue, the cool, briny surf whispering as it dampened her harlequined flesh.
"I'm afraid I can't help you." The words egress like smooth honey, the empathetic melody laden in rich, pleasant tones; earnestness, yet also indifference. She speaks loud enough to champion the roaring waves, her plum eyes only just returning to the azure specs of Azalea.
"I only recently arrived after the shades attacked." She added to farther verify her statement, moving with ease against the swaying motion of the endless blue. She cranes her arced neck to peer through the pristine depths, watching as a group of fish weave between her forelegs.
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
