Nymeria

The man's face does not flicker, does not waver—she waits with bated breath, eager, like a dog at the door with his master turning the key outside. Show me something; anything! Let him burn and broil beneath the cut and caress of her divine words—let him simmer and stir, grow unsettled by her stare's piercing intensity. She waits, bored and apocryphal, hunting for entertainment, cruelly excited for the possibility of the old man dying before her (with that hacking cough of his, surely he would keel over completely soon!) And she is neither given nor offered anything for her patience, for her hunger. Slowly, she droops, her sails deflated by the stallion's apparant lack of giving a fuck—but not entirely. There's still something formidable in her nostril's flare, her mouth's unruly twist, some sour puckering to her facial features as if by failing her, he has only spurred her furthermore into risky and reckless action.

Finally his eyes meet hers, sea blue and weepy with illness. Disgusting, she thinks, what an appalling stallion. His nostrils are grimy with his sickness' waste, his very face lined and creased. It's with great effort that she doesn't flinch to look upon his virulent features. Whatever he has, she does not wish to get infected by it. Still, even with all the flaws and faults to this auspicious moment, she is triumphant in her goading, and she cannot help but tip her chin up proudly. 

Me: 1.
Him: 0.

The pegasus continues, elaborating on his former statement. With each progressive word, Nym grows more giddy; blood and feathers! A dying stallion! An adventure? Lilómiel chirped, his warbling call grinding against her ears—she flips back her forelock, stamps a hind hoof against the ice. There's a building pressure in the back of her head as Lil presses on her thoughts, his scales chafing across her ponderings and curiosities. She shakes her head, at first flippantly, then more firmly, as if she can discard the rising pain. Back, she says, throwing her weight against his, but even the greatest, earthy continents can do nothing but stoicly withstand the tide.

Desperation blooms in his voice, impatience manufacturing into a deal. The spider's heart skips a beat, and Lilómiel cracks through her mind's barriers, slithering into her brain. He's everywhere, and nowhere, gelatinous blackness crooning approval. 

Take it. Take this opportunity.

Lies are springing onto her tongue, pushed there by her bonded. Say you've seen it. Those flamingo feathers, splattered in crimson—it wouldn't even be... it would be easy. It's never hard for her to lie; the only difficult bit is keeping them all straight. All she had to do was tell him where she went (south, north? Whoever knew?) Or not even that... it just had to be something small. And she could broker a deal for it.

Nymeria's gaze slides up from the feathered clump to Gull's cyan eyes.

"One favor for a favor. I help you, and when I need you, you help me out once. Anything short of murder goes. Deal?"