My damped luck seems to hold out. (Considering the previous misfortune and a wasted hour spent thrashing against the wind like an idiot; I certainly felt that even a small wave of good fortune was owed.) Her flesh quakes beneath my adolescent stare; it soon enough stiffens subconsciously, outlining that unflattering mudpath of hard travel. Yet, as far as I've seen, there are no glares or even a tail slap to ward away wandering eyes from temptation. With awkward practice, my expression tries to maintain it's casual facade -- even so, heat builds along these cheeks. I'm now fully conscious of those watchful eyes tracing my every move. It's not like this is the first time I've been close to a woman...ok...well...maybe it's the second.

At least I've escaped detection or imminent punishment for leering too long at her skinny...Language! I continue to frown and lower these eyes further to trace the thin line of Dröm's ankle and lifted foot. Later, (when we are miles apart,) there will be gratitude for her passive, child-like attitude; nativity was better then...oh, kicking out my teeth and smashing this skull to a bloody pulp. The flesh along my chest and shoulders harden, bristling from the idea.

Adorned crown bends to the left, prepping to angle the curve of my lowest dangling horn near the protruding joint of her exposed hoof. Intending (attempting) on gently, prying that stone loose. At least...that was the plan, then she starts talking (rambling.) Nonstop. It starts with a casual statement and foreign words that I don't even get the chance to try and repeat or think deeply upon. Those fragments transition to a question and before I can quell the tide, whatever dam had been holding back the keys to her innermost thoughts (ramble) cracks.

Twice my tongue flaps, awkwardly trying to interrupt, "I-," she kept going, "M-," yep...still talking, "Camon." I say, loudly; gems flick up, glowering open annoyance before I remember at what end of the horse this body now stood; they wisely mask their irritability by dropping and avoiding her stare. Angling sharply toward the ONLY reason I'm still standing here, my pale antler slips against the soft sole of her foot and under the corner of that chipped pebble, "Don't move," which translates to, please shut up...or I might start sounding like an asshole.

Jerking sharply to the right, my hook catches and successfully scraps it free. Dröm is rather trusting of strangers; which I believe to be a dangerously naïve trait. It would take more than a lodged pebble to allow someone clear access to some of the most vulnerable flesh of my loin -- before she comes to realize or remember this important fact I've already scrambled away.