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04-09-2017, 08:01 AM
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ALBRECHT and strom
The old stallion’s devious grin only intensifies as the mare shudders with realization, squealing a high pitched complaint as she startles away from his true and much less impressive display of derriere. She laughs, but the sound is more unsettling than comical, at first hesitant and with an awkward cadence, then swelling and quickly exceeding the perimeters of a normal, appropriate reaction. Still crouched, his pencil neck curving to watch her more closely, the stallion’s expression begins to falter, one ear flicking backward as her laughter continues and his apprehension builds. Already set on edge, he reflexively shifts away from the mare’s reaching jaws when they brush past his swollen hocks, exhaling a thin trickle of laughter, weak and insincere, a paltry offer to mollify whatever offense is hidden behind her cackle, but she presses farther, coming shoulder to shoulder with him and speaking, dipping the bleached rose of her velvet muzzle into the curtain of auburn suspended from his neck and throatlatch. He swallows, gathering the force of his magic around himself like a like a hammer held poised above an anvil, ready and waiting for the blacksmith’s command to strike, to mold a material raw and wild into something of utility, of art. “I stand corrected.” He rumbles, quiet, his attention never wavering from the intensity of her eyes. What started out as a simple jest, an antic let to run just a little too far, is now a standoff, all the lightness of his earlier mirth evaporated by the heat of tension between them. Nearby, his companion coils tight, wedging himself beneath the lip of a stone slab and twisting his limbless body into a knot of muscle and scales, his pear shaped head hidden at its center. The mare stands between snake and stallion, and suddenly her colorless hide feels like an uncrossable distance. The young python feels alone, despite their close proximity, and frets. What if the old stallion is harmed? He’s unable to offer aide, to even call for help. Trepidation churns in his stomach, a wave a nausea quivering toward his throat. "Talk." OOC // @Beloved Go on and take your piece of me, Blood or bone, No matter, I'll still be here when you're done. |
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