“I didn’t think you were,” a honeyed murmur slips past his lips and into the dark. Skywalker speaks as if he were something else, something gregarious and easy instead of that dangerous gleam in his eyes. A gust of wind caresses him and gently lifts his mane so that it mingles with and melts into the gloom – despite the uncomely curve of his nose he possesses a strange allure, crude and unlikely. She still smells of adolescence and, relative to him, carries the rosy scent of innocence; these are things that intrigue him, things that he craves. And so, callous purpose settles on his slanting shoulders, perched there together with the shadows that seem to belong to him.

“That is irrelevant, precious friend. Whomever it concerns I always repay my debts,” now his mouth is by her ear and he whispers, employing a voice light as whipped cream. Regardless of what wariness he might have instilled in the young mare, there is no need for him to doubt his ability in this game as his hot breath curls up against her again. Patience, someone had taught him long ago, and with this little tender thing he intends to be patient – she is so young! Remembering his own youth and the grand schemes and lavish dreams – long since dead and buried – that he filled his head with, Skywalker imagines the brightness of her dreams and ambitions. He imagines them and savors the thought, taking great pleasure in planning how he would best turn them to ash. The wraithlike stallion intends, simply, to make her his own, in a most disturbing manner. “I insist,” he tugs gently at her ear and it is believable, an admirable display of mischievousness. The way she holds his avalanche-gaze amuses him, that childish boldness quickens his appetite, “we all need something, there must be a thing or two I could do for you.” He steps close again, the light-starved, wilting grass bends willingly for him – as she too will do, in due time. With a sudden, dreamy expression nestled among the cusps and crevices of his proud face he slowly slips his muzzle down the soft curve of her neck, to her withers where he gives her a gentle nudge. A boyish, unpredictable smile spreads on his lips but his eyes do not glitter, they remain cold and aloof. “Shall we?”

S K Y W A L K E R.


WC: 395
OOC: Or we just play it out and see what happens?
Harmony