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04-11-2013, 09:02 AM
She is insulted, it seems. But is there any reason why she shouldn't be? If some stranger says nothing in your presence, simply stares you down, are you to simply roll over and take it? He knows he would not. It would be a submission, a loss, he would not be willing to admit to. No, it makes sense that she is offended- he simply does not care. With an inwards scoff that manifests as a light, hacking cough, he picks himself up and strides across the water. The frigorific stream splashes across his hocks as he walks; it tangles his shorter feathers and slows the blood that draws so close to the skin. His coat is thin and unprepared for the winter to come, but he is hardy and can easily withstand the cold. The metal boot turns to ice as it soaks in the water's cold and is pulled tighter to his skin by contracting leather straps. It scrapes the streambed, kicking aside rocks and sending schools of fish on their way. He stands in the water, a mere foot from where the mercurial mare makes her stand. Does she think herself powerful? Is she proud of herself? He leans in so close that his surprisingly honeyed breath, smelling of fresh-fallen snow and dew in a forest, presses against her face. His voice a low, almost singsong baritone, he answers her: "Doubtful." And then, in sync with the pressing of white lashes to a cheek, following a word that trails off into a song, stretching out for twenty feet, a blizzard hits the Windtossed Foothills a couple months early. In an instant there is nothing but white and cold; the stud's storm becomes a blinding screen, rendering those unused to its harsh conditions helpless. If this meeting cannot be on his own terms, he will force it from him instantly. But in the snow he feels confident and whole. In the snow his heart thaws. |
