The reason for that is simple. Scars, to Oizys, are beauty. They're a sign that somebody has lived through immense pain and come out the other side fighting; they're a sign that somebody has suffered hardship and survived. With her bulky, functional build and monochrome colouration, Oizys is certainly not pretty in the traditional sense, but there's a raw, feral appeal to her for those with a more discerning eye, those that see beauty as an ability to protect oneself and thrive. The cold grey eye within the scars stares defiantly at the stallion, daring him to comment, daring his handsome face to betray his emotions.

He passes the test with flying colours; he does not recoil, or make his excuses to leave. A smile spreads slowly across the mare's lips as relief, unbidden, fills her; she likes this man, and she's quite a believer in first impressions. It would have been terribly disappointing to find out that she was wrong about this man, that he wasn't as different from the others as she'd thought when he helped her kill a bear. Each movement of his seems almost predatory in a way that appeals to the deepest, most primal itch in the gargoyle's body, and the golden fur sweeping across those magnificent muscles would be enough to set a weaker woman's legs quivering. Thankfully Oizys is not so foolish as to make an idiot of herself over a stallion, no matter how stunning, but the darkening of her frigid gaze and the light sheen of sweat across her skin are giveaways that she cannot hide.

A chuckle is given to his words - words spoken in that delightful deep voice, the voice that vibrates into the depths of her bones and elsewhere. "Is that jealousy, hm? Don't worry, handsome, nobody else hunts bears like you do." She winks, shutting her scarred right lid across its unharmed eye to complete the puzzle of faded pink lines, although it's only momentary before the bright pale blue orb is visible again. A request for her name is quickly granted. "My name is Oizys. Apparently I am named for a Goddess of misery, distress and anxiety, which goes some way to explaining my charming personality." The words are sarcastic, dripped from her lips like treacle. "And yours?"

There's a twitch in the back of her mind that makes her want to close the distance between them and feel whether the man is as hard to the touch as he looks; she manages to resist, quite perturbed by this newfound desire of hers.