graasvoel

The ruddy skin on the vulture’s chest was slick with sweat and his ribs moved with deep breaths from his extended flight; however, that did not stop the stallion from swelling slightly beneath the woman’s electric blue gaze. One could almost feel the sparks.

“‘New adventure’?” his gruff voice both parroted her and inquired further, his raised brows and gleaming gaze implying that he quite liked the sound of this. His heated gaze, however, was drawn to the sharp sound of her tail slapping against her flanks. Red and yellow eyes narrowed slightly, watching the blue-tipped strands harmlessly trail back behind her hocks; would that be so harmless against his—but wait, focus Gaal, she’s talking, saying something. But what? Her name? Yes, it must be her name.

Ampere? Wasn’t she the “Mother of”…something? Though he was not longer new to Helovia, he spent more time chasing mares than learning customs. So the mare’s title was lost to his pleasure-distracted mind. However, this ‘Mother’ was a MILF. And Gaal was just fine with that.

He made a rumbling, guttural, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, slowly shaking his great head in ’no’ to answer her offer of making up a name for him. He grinned a mischievous, lopsided grin, “I’d rather earn one from you.” And, though there was something in her smile that haunted him—something that echoed the cracks beneath the facades of the Eahiras in Uumalah’s whorehouses, he paused only once his in his sharp eyes’ close inspection of her face.

Everyone had secrets. Wars that raged in their minds. But not everyone needed to discuss their battle tactics. Sometimes they just needed a breather in the deadlock.

So the giant, wing man turned towards the shallow, sun-warmed waters that stretched between two islands. The balmy brine lapped gently against his skin, darkening red to mahogany as his massive wings spread out in stifle-deep water and he looked towards her.

“Adventure awaits, Ampere,” he was careful in how he said her name, perhaps putting more of a Korofi accent on it to soften the ’p’ and roll the ’r’. Hers was a name that had the staccato to be shouted in ecstasy or the legato to be softy murmured in bliss.

And then he flexed his wings powerfully, sending a wall of white, salty spray towards her black skin. A roughish grin covered his face as he wondered how she’d wear the sea.