What had she been through, to make her this way? What had she lived through, walked through, ran through, what had she fought, survived, conquered, to be the way she was, to want to fall in front of him, an open book, to tear her pages out and thrust them before him without so much of a care? She was a mystery to him, a puzzle with her open book policy - he felt like he was being shown something indecent, something too private, too deep, he didn't deserve to see something that intricate, things that he would protect within himself, keep secret unless the other had earned such a secret, a treasure, a piece of him that, once given, he could never truly take back.

He wondered, again and again, just where her hooves had taken her, what her curiously speckled eyes had seen - he even questioned how long she had had her wolf by her side, how long had their bond been shared - had they both experienced the same things? And if so, why then did the wolf greet him with a snarl and the mare with questions and information too deep for Grimalkin to cope with?

Perhaps it was the mare's own kind of snarl, her own personal armour - perhaps she spoke openly as a guise, only giving information that she was comfortable with - perhaps there was even more to her, deeper mysteries - perhaps the front she was giving to him was a lie, a fallacy, an act.

Grimalkin didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't ignore the possibility.

Not always, she mused, her voice irritatingly tantalising, reeling him in like a fish caught on a hook - he had swallowed her bait and the hook was firmly lodged in his lip, he was a fish willingly leaving the comforts of his sea and knowing the suffocation that was to come. He couldn't read her, even when she gave him whatever he asked for. She gave him just enough that he couldn't seek more clarification, for then he would seem the fool, she baited him with tidbits and deep comments, and at the same time she gave him nothing substantial - but he used those bits and pieces to create his own image of her within his mind anyway, and it frustrated him.

"What are you?" he asked more directly - not who she was, for he didn't know if he truly wanted to know that - she could be a queen, a witch, a sorcerer capable of smiting him, and ignorance was bliss if that were the case; Grimalkin didn't want to know who he spoke to, but rather just what had he happened upon in these strange islands separated by rips and currents and oceans rising and falling. So he asked her to define what she was, his tones soft yet rough as his accent sharpened the query.

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@Essetia
long rambly post that basically says Grim is confused lol.

colourize-stock & larfsalot @deviantart