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01-18-2017, 09:38 AM
The mares sarcasm and wit are flawlessly executed, her humor dark and engaging, digging at the old stallion with exaggerated, feigned politeness. Ears forward, he hangs on every jeer and detail like a master craftsman surveying some new acquaintance for raw skill, for potential, for competition. His grin only spreads with each new comment, his emerald eyes lighting from their perpetual shadow, dismissing the dirt and the tangles, the scowls and the well-dressed hostility, seeing only a creature with which he has some commonality. It’s a gift so rare that he startles to find himself suddenly at the mares mercy, his guard disengaged by the moment of - joy?
The ivory of her horn, discolored somewhat by either age or neglect, maybe even naturally – the way the soft off white and peach of its spiral matches her hooves - hovers near the underside of his barrel, only its polish dull and unimpressive. He has no doubt of the weapons sharpness. “My lady,” He shudders, worried for her closeness and for the unspoken intention in her posture. “You are too kind.” He falls into genuine manners as a means of placating, gingerly stepping away from the proffered blade lest its wielder decide to disembowel him, or worse, desex.
His mind devolves to swearing and sputtering, furious that he’s allowed himself to be caught in this moment of vulnerability, given the mare an easy opportunity to wound him with far more than words. All she’d have to do is make a sudden up-swing with that horn, but he dearly hopes that she won’t. His white rimmed eyes and back turned ears beg for leniency while his mouth works to delay her long enough to create some distance between them again. “Surely a maiden like you will have retainers for such things. Combs, salves...” He trails off, voice pinching into something small and strained. Don't hurt me, it wordlessly pleads, all pride forgotten in the face of danger.
"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // @Sheba
The ivory of her horn, discolored somewhat by either age or neglect, maybe even naturally – the way the soft off white and peach of its spiral matches her hooves - hovers near the underside of his barrel, only its polish dull and unimpressive. He has no doubt of the weapons sharpness. “My lady,” He shudders, worried for her closeness and for the unspoken intention in her posture. “You are too kind.” He falls into genuine manners as a means of placating, gingerly stepping away from the proffered blade lest its wielder decide to disembowel him, or worse, desex.
His mind devolves to swearing and sputtering, furious that he’s allowed himself to be caught in this moment of vulnerability, given the mare an easy opportunity to wound him with far more than words. All she’d have to do is make a sudden up-swing with that horn, but he dearly hopes that she won’t. His white rimmed eyes and back turned ears beg for leniency while his mouth works to delay her long enough to create some distance between them again. “Surely a maiden like you will have retainers for such things. Combs, salves...” He trails off, voice pinching into something small and strained. Don't hurt me, it wordlessly pleads, all pride forgotten in the face of danger.
"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // @Sheba
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