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“It may be alike to ours.”
The dark stallion does not advance; no hint of emotion is chiseled or etched into those cerulean eyes that watch unwavering, overbearing in a way that makes the cobalt mare’s skin itch and crawl in uneasy agitation. Larkspur’s leonine tail spins and twists against her flanks irritably, damp strands of onyx hair leaving streaks of even darker blue in their wake as they slide across her skin. Her latent thoughts scream and claw against a well-built cage of self-restraint; they’re driven by her occasionally over exuberant temper, a flame that’s been fed by his gall to speak to her in a manner of such callous indifference. She betrays none of this though, the only emotion tainting the wild, Amazonian elegance of her silhouette the same fierceness she had met him with upon his arrival. However, she fears that one day her well-practiced constraint might fail her; the breaking point will surpass her ability to stop herself before she reaches it, and she will forget herself entirely.
Maybe Larkspur has been wrong in thinking that she has purpose, when in fact she is merely a soul lost in the world and it’s constantly changing hands of fate and chance. Realization breaks over the horizon of her own obstinacy, and what had previously been uncertainty begins to change and shape into something else entirely, revealed by the new light. It is something she quickly dismisses, ignores all together and buries in the deepest, unreachable recesses of her cognizance. The insecurity of her own heart.
The mare relaxes, licks her lips, vexation subsiding and the defensive stiffness of her body giving way to something calmer as she contemplates his statement – a subliminal offer of sorts – in earnest. The water she stands in continues to run around her ankles, chilled and biting, the bubbling whisper of its passing the only noise of nature now, all other reverberations of the living chased away by the presence of this somber, indistinct character of shadow before her. Larkspur does not want to trust him, every fiber of her being squalling profanities of indignation, but she is like a moth drawn to the fire. Habit shatters at the beckoning of temptation and intrigue, hunger and exhaustion adding to the shadow of enticement that surrounds this oddly alluring stranger, and so she speaks. She has no other choice.
"If it is my usefulness you question, put me to the test." Audacity and resolve lace through her words as they take flight in clearly articulated intonations that challenge and accept the unspoken offer all at once. Proud, unshakeable, Larkspur does not shy or fade from the savage stallion like the earth that perishes in his presence. It might have been better if she had.
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[BASIN] Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any]
