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Sweet satisfaction, it furls through her with welcome warmth, and it’s all she can do to keep herself from smiling in selfish delight as he moves away from her, his irked scowl at her rather abrupt invasion of his personal space her source of amusement. Her tasseled tail flicks idly through the damp spring grass, curling around her pasterns and her legs, tangling and knotting as it snares against anything in its path. She pulls back just enough to allow him some distance, and to perhaps reassure him that she does note bite, though the thought may have crossed her mind. She does not smile, but she does meet his dark eyes glare for glare, bright yellow-gold glimmering and dancing with an undeniable hint of impish mischief that she cannot help.
Kitten be damned, this lioness still liked to play with her perspective meals.
As the bay unceremoniously swallowed his last bite of food and begins his epithet, Larkspur shifts all he weight to her right, allowing her left hind hoof to rest lazily in the shards and blades of spring grass. The dampness that lingers in the ground clings to her pasterns, and loose blades of grass stick to the feathered hairs there, like straggling travelers begging for a ride and refusing to let go. She feigns interest, ears swiveling toward the sound of his voice in subtle, indifferent movements, her expression changing as she watches him catch himself staring blatantly at her- losing his words as he tries to say them. For all her perseverance, Larkspur cannot stop the teasing grin that changes her hardened expression, nor the look of questioning curiosity that dared him to explain himself, replacing the previously devilish glare that had been there. She shifts her weight yet again, tossing her head slightly so that the mess of her storm colored forelock is cleared from her face, sweeping around the base of her brindled horn and off to the side where it falls against the length of her cheek.
She takes notice that he collects himself like a practiced soldier, the curl of his strong neck against the wave of his mane, the dark, smoldering eyes of the deepest blue that stare at her so intently. She surprises herself when she doesn’t look away.
"The point is, you, madam unicorn, are defiling my dinner with your hooves."
She considers him coolly, like a student taking a test, but she makes it a quick study. Instead of answering right away Larkspur’s first reaction is to scoff, a guttural, snorty sound that does not befit a lady. However, she had never been one for lady like things, and she makes sure to assure this notion by promptly dropping her head and taking another large mouthful of green from what could have been considered his patch of tundra grass. Slowly and unhurriedly she pulls her head back up, munching contentedly and rather thoroughly on her too-large morsel, in absolutely no hurry to excuse or explain herself. Glittering, gleaming eyes peer back at the stallion expectantly as she swallows, daring him to say something. She even goes so far as to take another step toward him, simply to try and irritate him further, finding grand amusement in his subtle hints of discomfort.
“My sincerest apologies kind sir,” She tilts her head to the side, words trilling with mock remorse. “I wasn’t aware that my presence caused you such affliction. Have I made you lose your appetite? It would be for the best I suppose… If you were half as concerned with your own figure as you were mine, those extra layers would be less noticeable.”
Her expression is rather demure, though a hint of coy allure lingers in the way she lets her words bite into the air, clear and lyrical as she speaks. If he was half as intelligent as she assumed him to be, he would realize she spoke mostly in jest. Larkspur was not so ignorant to miss the fact that he was anything but ungainly and out of shape. No, despite all her cat calling and attempts to belittle him, she had decided that he was not so different from her. He was a warrior, the same honorable, noble creed that sang in the blood of his ancient ancestors was not so unlike hers. It was the familiarity that called to her; she could see it in the dark depths of his eyes, the lingering, eternal and imperishable flame of the valiant. She let her eyes roam over him a second time, unabashed and seemingly arrant, lingering on the more noticeable of his scars, her thoughts drifting and beginning to wonder in childlike curiosity.
Who was he? What was his story?
Did he understand?
“Do you have a name?” It is a simple question, one that leaps from her mouth unexpectedly, gone and lost to the wind and time before she can realize she has said anything at all. She immediately clams up then, wondering if she has said too much, or if perhaps she has already angered him beyond the point of hoping to make any sort of friendly amends. Before she can say anything else she grabs another mouthful of grass, than one more, sufficiently shutting herself up so that she cannot speak, at least until he has had a chance to retaliate to her previous affront at his appearance- she was nothing if not fair. Too much time alone has made her rusty; her skills when it comes to socialization are rather unpracticed and affected by long days, and longer nights, spent in conversation with no one but herself for company.
Perhaps there was a chance that he could forgive her short comings and imperfections, ignore her inherent faults and flaws.
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Like slow-spinning redemption. [Déodat]
