_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

You.

His eyes look upward far too quickly for his liking (it is, after all, her line).

It is not an ugly, rust-colored creature that awaits him, heralding him with the light of the rising dawn upon her heels. No, it is another mare altogether, one with whom he had shared a twilit evening with in a world that had reflected the sunset in all corners. The edge in his eyes softens (he does not know his eyes had gone hard, eager) as he recognizes the pale grey body, the slim, gold-laced wings, the messy tail that nonetheless weaves behind a well-formed haunch with appropriate grace.

“You,” he says, and the difference is marked; it is pleasure that slips through his tongue, a smooth surprise lingering there, right against his teeth. He had guessed before that she was a follower of the Dragon’s Throat, by the way the sunlight wreathed her frame, highlighting a coat and a shape he found pleasing. It would’ve been a fine jest of irony if she were not, in any case. Here she stands, and he assumes himself correct; his shoulders relax from the tension of tedious, moonlit patrol. He continues to assume. She must be here to relieve him.

“The sun was setting the last time I saw you,” he breathes, and he’s not sure if the words are for her ears, “and now, it rises with your appearance.” He appraises her, as he appraises all mares with that quick, lazy rake of his eyes (they aren’t so polite, those things). He snorts, a subtle laughter, and for a moment those grey irises are hidden in the shadow of his brow tangled locks. “You’re built for the sun, it seems.”

Or, maybe, it’s built for you.

He does not notice the edges of her body, the rigid eyes that watch him. There's no reason to suspect her anger. Their last meeting had been…memorable, to say the least, and pleasant enough. He shakes the night from his mane, rolls the exhaustion from his shoulders, reminding her of those pleasant twilight things by example, for his pride refuses to allow himself to be lost in the possible shuffle of many nights (she may be a whore—he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care). He wonders if she is seeking a reprise; he supposes she has work to do, orders to follow. The possibilities are endless—but he is careful to play his part (always).


"talk talk talk"