The ground was thick with fallen branches, decaying leaves colored various shades of brown, and brambly bushes; the path wound past many trees sprouting tall and thin, their stubbly, near-bare, branches provided a sort of protection from the rain that had followed them from the Threshold. By now, Dröm was completely drenched in water. The liquid cold felt ten times colder on her coat from the wind that blew through the trees. She blinked a few times as she looked ahead, Morir behind her, seemingly directing her where to go. There journey from the Threshold had been short and quiet, but that did not bother her. She had just witnessed Morir beat the cocky stallion so fast it surprised her. She figured he would win, but never did she think it would be done so quickly. It gave her an odd sense if protection, knowing her company could fight so well, yet she knows that when push comes to shove, he would not wait for the rabbit. She glanced back at him every once in a while, to make sure he was still following her. The path had grown marginally thinner, but could still easily hold the both of them side by side.

She slid to a halt, her hooves settling on the moist leaves. She hoped he would hear her stop and halt. She would not enjoy being stabbed in the rear by three sharp horns. She snorted softly before turning her head to look at him. Her eyes find where his eyes would be. Her warm breath dancing in and out of her nostrils, inflating and deflating her slender flanks. She begins spinning her hindquarters away from him, not exactly content having to crane her neck to see him or having his head lingering so close to her bottom half. She looks over his uninjured form, marveling at the fact that he didn't get hit that much, at all even. Everything is quiet but the gentle rain smacking the leaves before dropping down to the ground. "You fought extremely well." She whispers softly, her voice deep and rich, but far from seductive. Recent experiences in Helovia had taught her not to flirt or she would end up becoming the hostage for yet another stallion or even mare. All the mares Dröm had met had been fairly friendly. However, the stallions in this land seemed to be fifty shades of fucked up to the girl. Well, maybe Midas was sane, but she did not know him well.

@[Morir]