Those ruby reds held her gently, almost respectfully - if only the brute were capable of such things.

The maiden felt the urge to preen beneath his gaze, to show him what exactly had been cultured and developed upon the desert. A lack of chains and the absence of duty coalesced upon the pegasus' shoulders in a show of confidence and aplomb that the mare had lacked for so many months now. What good it had done her to cast away the affections and attentions of a man whose heart could not be satisfied, what beauty blossomed beneath unapologetic self appreciation. So she angled her head to catch the light upon those angular cheekbones, raised her wings just enough to make a striking silhouette, and grinned that sadists grin at her beloved Goliath.

Folding her lips into a soft "oh" and raising invisible brows in mock surprise, Orithia felt a spark of mischief flare within her breast as she cooed to her counterpart, "Pretty titles? Why, Goliath wasn't enough for you?" Her voice was smoke and velvet, honey and sin - wherever the seductress had slumbered in the years past, there had always been something about Volterra that brought it out, something sly and primal about his presence that coaxed a bit of fun from the pale medusa.

The mention of his nether-regions draw a dark chuckle from her blushed lips, the memory of an attempted castration fresh within her mind, "Of course I'll stay away from the beast that lurks between those legs, though I like to think I'd look charming with a jewel or two around my neck." Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, all humor and wry warmth drained from her demeanor - even those shimmering pink eyes dimmed as she spoke, "As tempting as it may be, Volterra, I find that I can no longer bear the weight of another's law upon my spine. I cannot live beneath the rule of children playing at gods and kings - I would rather I find what I may without the requirements of a nation upon my shoulders."

With that said, a ghost of a smile flitted over her features, a memory or a realization, she could not be sure. Moving forward so that her rump was at his shoulder and her wing joints neared his flanks, the pale damsel made to run her lips over the hard muscle the roped Volterra's side - a press of contact that could mean anything the stallion wanted it to. Then, as she continued forward, twigs and leaves crunching beneath her hooves, Orithia cast a final series of words over her shoulder,

"If ever you tire of pretty titles and of living as a lapdog, you're welcome to find me."