Perhaps her own lack of introduction had been deliberate, averse to provide a name to the face just yet - but his own is stowed in the back of her mind, a place that she could revisit as she pleased. It wasn’t often that a stallion proved to be more than a joke to Dahlia, most of them in her homelands had proved to be pig-headed, hankering for only one thing. She is a woman of supremacy and métier, one that would readily kick another in the skull should they ever try anything she wasn’t willing to try. There was only a short-lived silence that settled between them, her steel eyes conveying a definite grade of interest as they trace along the broad physique of the buckskin steed – a brow lifting just faintly as she articulates a moderate intrigue, he was fine-looking – perhaps even intelligent, not considering what he had done just moments ago. The talk of a few cultivated herds was noted, but she was not ready to dive into just anything, yet. She knew nothing of the herds and what they represented or brought to the table, she felt no desire to dip her hooves into poison – as that was what the lack of knowledge was. Poison. Dahlia’s nostrils flare just slightly, drinking in his aroma, his own hygiene seemingly matching hers on this day of rain and mud. The chocolate woman normally lacks the motivation to actually care for the act of self-grooming, she felt no need – who was she going to try to try to impress, anyway? The trees? The mats in her mane would perhaps be more noticeable if she was not soaked to the bone, if they did not cling so eagerly to the base of her muscled neck. “I’m not willing to step into some herd I know nothing of, so I suppose I’ll go with you – at least, for now,” a smile of mischief is offered, a certain spark igniting in the cool depths of those graying cyan eyes. “You can call me Dahlia,” simply, Dahlia. She’d figured that he had been waiting to receive her own introduction, sometimes, she simply forgets her manners, after all – it’s been awhile since she’s had the pleasure of company. The chocolate mare is a creature that desires attention; she yearns for conversation – even if she says little and come off a bit vile at times. Any attention was enough to satisfy, even if it were ill. Casually, the woman would commit to taking just a stride or two closer towards the stallion, ears flicking forward to demonstrate she means no harm, she’s merely curious – her gaze finding it’s way into the shadows once more, attempting to pick out the dog that was his companion. “Magic?” finally, she breathes the word – “Possible, I guess,” inwardly, she shrugs, unsure what to think of it all.