surely as the sun will rise

surely as the sun will rise

Saphiron Posts: N/A

Unregistered

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03-30-2014, 10:19 PM

Fat flakes swirl past her forehead, planting themselves on her already luminous mane while spidery strands of pearl cream whip about her high cheeks; the wind, if not shattering, is incessant and tireless. Hearing heavy but restrained footfalls muffled by snow and the low groan of the weather, she cranes her sleek narrow neck to the side ever so slightly. A twitch, really, with her aloe-leaf shaped ears straining in the direction of the stallion. Peering at him from a slight angle, she allows him that nicker before further acknowledging him, feeling coy and kittenish today.

But when she lands that savage molten gaze of hers, framed by thick lashes with the sky's crystal shards as white stars upon a sooty canvas, on him she inhales sharply. Her heart, her stupid heart, skips, conjuring a nauseating fluttering sensation in her abdomen. He is in turn greeted by a grimace, albeit one directed more at herself than him, but the sharp way she looks at him doesn't abate. Shifting her weight back and forth between, feigning indifference, she huffs; smoky steam billows forth from her cracked maw, churning as it snakes heavenward. "It's cold, is it?" She offers him a wide, toothy grin after that, dissonant with a voice that is deadpan and flat, even with its vague hint of amusement. As if to emphasize, the soft downy feathers of her wings lift in a display of royal indigo and sepia as another chill attacks her.

Before she can respond to his offer, a sweet little whinny chimes in the air, tinkling like sleigh bells. She chirps curiously as she watches and waits for the other mare to appear, only to end up cocking her head to the left, rather owlishly, during the bow. The faintly quizzical expression she sports melts away at the sight of the paint's warm pageant-winning smile. She can't help but return it, hers much more subdued and shy, but no less genuine.

"Helloooo. Thanks for the greeting. Both of you," she nods toward Ciceron after breaking eye contact with the shapely, swan-lithe, Arabesque angel. She can't help but feel a pang of jealousy rip through her chest, hot blood rushing to her face, suddenly feeling stout and odd compared to their heights. Fighting through it, she continues onward, in that same easy-going laze of a timbre. "I have a choice of herds?" How many are there? She wondered, but kept it to herself. "Okay, what herd do you guys suggest?" Again, there is that muted trace of humor, surmising their respective answers.