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Larkspur appraises the equine and her wise words, though no cordiality bestows her expression, no hint of kindness or repose. She remains a solid figure upon the beach, muscles coiled beneath skin, taught and tense with the anxieties of the monsters in her head, the apprehensions of her own hesitations and fears that lay at the foundation of her animosity, her abhorrence for these lesser creatures that walk the land and bark and scream for equality, for significance. The war that wages in her is one that has spanned the ages, as ancient as time itself, racing through the blood of those who have witnessed its history, the violence, and the chaos.
“If a spar is what you want, Miss, then I won’t turn you down, but my only consolation is that the victor takes nothing, and the loser gives nothing. Very well?”
Was it a spar Larkspur sought? A clash against the enemy here on these wind tossed, sandy shores? Larkspur smiled then, a Cheshire cat’s revealing of teeth, her eyes are bright with the thought of a challenge, and something in the way she stand changes. Energy replaces the festering anger, the vicious intent, an excitement that comes with the prospects of glory and victory. Would this russet and red colored mare dare to prove her worth, test her mettle against the likes of Larkspur? Bravery was admirable no matter how she viewed the opponent, if she turned down the offer, she would be the one wearing the title of cowardice.
“My name is Larkspur,” She finally speaks, intonations of pride and unabashed arrogance twisted into the cry of her voice against the wind, “Courage speaks volume of character, if you wish to prove your worth, I’ll agree to your terms.”
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