To his enormous relief, the mare doesn’t impale him or his precious genitals (also enormous). She holds her position, but she seems to lighten somewhat, laughing hollowly and giving the old stallion opportunity enough to skitter away from the outstretched tip of her horn, though it stays ominously brandished toward him. Ears tilted back in distrust, he pivots to face her.

Who is this crone to threaten him, he wonders, his temper trying desperately to catch and burst to life, anger and offense being his habitual defense to everything, and why are Helovians so fucking touchy about everything? He’s done no harm in teasing her, he argues to no one in particular. He may have even helped her by removing the twig from her mane - How would she have gotten it herself? - yet somehow shish kebabing his balls seems like an appropriate reply? ‘Sheesk.’ His companion sniggers from the garment at his chest, delighted to acquire a new phrase (even unpronounceable) that rivals the hilarity of pots and kettles. Unaware of this inner dialogue, the mare smiles at him, her feelings unreadable from the mild expression, and the stallion cocks his head in confusion.

There’s nothing overtly threatening about her, certainly not in the threadbare and disheveled state of herself - ‘Kettle!’ His companion jumps to assert, never missing an opportunity - but now, even distanced somewhat from the panic of impending injury, his hackles are raised and the old black just can’t see the humor in their game any more, hearing an edge of hostility where maybe none is intended. So he hesitates, briefly wondering if the inquiry is actually a demand - A robbery? - before yielding to the prospect of revenge through banter.

"A gift fit for such a gentlewoman?" He eyes the mare, as if seriously appraising. "I may have just the thing." With a wink his whiskered nose dips into the stained wool of the scarf around his neck, brushing aside trinkets and baubles, fumbling over and around his companion in search of something specific.

When he emerges again it's with a quick movement of the head and neck, not so much a flourish as a hurried toss, trying to over-hand the item onto the shaft of the mares threatening horn. He lunges away then, a mean-spirited grin seeping across his face in anticipation of her reaction. The item he's gifted her is not of gold or silver, but of thin, dirty string and a wrinkled, dead leaf which may or may not also be sweaty and soiled. "Perfect!" He laughs, hooves still dancing to keep him out of stabbing range.




"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // Alby has given @Sheba :: [ Item: Dead leaf | A dead leaf on a string. ] You may do with it what you wish! <3