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fear the vulture and it will come. fear nothing and you are the vulture.
The vulture’s hot gaze did not miss the flush that crept into the delicate, thin skin of the Physician’s cheeks at his compliment. His roguish grin grew at the sight—though his raptor gaze switched from her cheeks to her lips as she tested his name on them. He nodded slightly, approving of her pronunciation of his foreign nickname (or, perhaps more aptly, approving the sound of his name on her tongue).
And, at her next words and wink (the stallion counted his blessings, he liked witty, bold women), a rough chuckle escaped his thick throat, “You’re right, lovely Najya. You are no thief. A thief steals things not willingly given. You need but flutter those beautiful eyes and I am sure any man would give you whatever you desire,” and any other banter he may be followed was quickly cut off by her sudden approach.
His thick skull tilted slightly, caught slightly off-guard at no longer being the instigator. His grin became nonplussed, his eyes questioning as they swept over the soft curves of her body—her actions spoke of a brazen women. But her face—his sharp but confused gaze flicked back to the sculpted, russet expression. Those lovely hazel eyes were neither lusty nor bold. They were quiet, hesitant; only confident as she made quick work of the scrapes at his fetlock.
“I am in your debt,” was his gruff response; and though he placed his thickly feathered hoof on the ground to test her healing, his gaze did not leave hers. “Good as new,” was his approval of his no-longer-injured leg. Gently, his hot muzzle reached to softly press against her withers, a tactile show of gratitude, should she allow it.
And then, as they both lingered in the clearing, he spoke again, “Tell me, Najya, what talents do you have, besides healing?” The question hung in the small clearing’s air on his husky voice.
And, at her next words and wink (the stallion counted his blessings, he liked witty, bold women), a rough chuckle escaped his thick throat, “You’re right, lovely Najya. You are no thief. A thief steals things not willingly given. You need but flutter those beautiful eyes and I am sure any man would give you whatever you desire,” and any other banter he may be followed was quickly cut off by her sudden approach.
His thick skull tilted slightly, caught slightly off-guard at no longer being the instigator. His grin became nonplussed, his eyes questioning as they swept over the soft curves of her body—her actions spoke of a brazen women. But her face—his sharp but confused gaze flicked back to the sculpted, russet expression. Those lovely hazel eyes were neither lusty nor bold. They were quiet, hesitant; only confident as she made quick work of the scrapes at his fetlock.
“I am in your debt,” was his gruff response; and though he placed his thickly feathered hoof on the ground to test her healing, his gaze did not leave hers. “Good as new,” was his approval of his no-longer-injured leg. Gently, his hot muzzle reached to softly press against her withers, a tactile show of gratitude, should she allow it.
And then, as they both lingered in the clearing, he spoke again, “Tell me, Najya, what talents do you have, besides healing?” The question hung in the small clearing’s air on his husky voice.
graasvoel
@Najya
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