The ironheart quirks a brow and cocks her head in the direction of the shattered willow, the innuendo dripping easily from her tongue. This, she knows, is the land of rutting, the land of lust and sating the primal urges of the flesh. She knows this not because she has visited here for that purpose herself, but because the place reeks of hormones. Hell, she practically got pregnant just stepping over the threshold. So to see a stallion - a handsome thing, who would have no shortage of eligible ass flung in his general direction if he chose to indulge - taking out his anger on a tree is rather odd to see. Nyx would expect him to be sating a different urge here, not the kill-it-dead one.

As she nears, the silver realises that she knows this man; he is of the Edge, seen in passing during gatherings and grazing. He also attended both God fights, like she did. It's only good manners for her to approach and keep him company, then. She doesn't know that many of her herdmates, which is a wrong she is keen to correct. She has to live with them, after all - she is a warrior, meaning she would give her life to protect them. It's only fair she gets to know who she is protecting.

Dominus prowls in the undergrowth nearby, breaking out of it to shoot the stallion a hungry blue-eyed look. "Lots of meat on that one," he observes, then growls as Nyx bodily shoves him out of the way. He shakes his massive mane then slinks his muscular frame off back into the foliage, tail swinging irritably behind him. The soldier looks from him to the antelope-horned male. "I'm Nyx, a warrior of the Edge. I believe we are herdmates?" She dips her head to him, obsidian horn sweeping towards the ground, before fixing him with her curious blue stare. "So, who pissed on your breakfast?" Her words are sympathetic, despite the somewhat vulgar nature of them. Nyx doesn't do open outpourings of emotion - she does cheery, humourous pick-me-ups. Somehow, with him being here, and the sheer depressed nature of him, she is hazarding a guess that it's mare-related. And Nyx, in her eyes, is the perfect way to show him that her gender aren't all asshats.

His second grin has more enthusiasm, and she can't stem the slight excited quiver of her flesh at the way he looms over her, his gaze intense. He's a handsome thing, and Nyx is a shallow creature who knows her way around a good-looking man. She likes them big, as big stallions produce big foals, and big foals tend to be stronger. She's no dwarf herself, after all.

Suddenly he opens up, like a great dam being opened to bring forth the crashing torrents within. As expected, the source of his ire is a mare - or, rather, a mare's new beau. Subtly, the silver winces. This is precisely why she has shunned monogamy to embrace a life of...not wanton sluttery, per se, but free loving focused around the creation of strong offspring. Yes, she thinks her lifestyle makes more sense, as only bedding men who best her in battle - usually her kings - means she only produces powerful foals, who will survive and keep her genes flooding into the next generation. Yes, she has a slightly scornful attitude towards couples, and yes, she has convinced herself that she is a woman in charge of her own destiny, free from the burden of a steady mate.

But there's a part of her that shuns love because she is afraid of getting her heart broken. Afraid of the weakness that comes with such yearnings of the soul.

The Glazier implies that the stallion who took his wife did not do so through entirely consensual means. Secretly, Nyx thinks that any mare who cannot fend off the advances of an amorous stallion deserves everything she gets, and that a man like the one in front of her could aim his sights higher than a woman too weak to defend herself, but she manages to keep these thoughts locked away. She does have some semblance of tact, even if it is occasionally forgotten. The rage in the man's expression and gestures is a sight to behold, and the ironheart has a sudden craving to see how he handles that big body in battle. She stands still, with a warrior's unflinching steel facade at the testosterone-fuelled display. "My advice would be to kill the colt and dance through the bloody wreckage, but that's probably not the most productive solution." Nyx has never had to be a woman scorned, so has little experience of emotions like jealousy, but she knows of stallions and their possessiveness. Bless them, they swagger around with harems and whores galore, but if their women dare to have a little piece of extra dick on the side, they turn into ball-swinging cavemen.

"This mare...is it safe to assume that you loved her?" And she manages to say that without gagging! She looks at him, her own features impassive; ice to his fire, iron to his malleable, potent temper.

As the Glazier mentions the Basin, Nyx feels herself stiffen. Her thoughts immediately travel to Deodat, and how dreadfully awkward it would be if relations with the Basin soured. Not that she would blame the stallion for marching straight into the icy tundra and slaying the colt like a lover scorned; impulsiveness is a wonderful thing.

Love her? The stallion repeats her question, but still the ironheart stays silent, waiting for the outpouring of emotion that will surely follow. His high-held head lowers, although he does not entirely relax - Nyx is no stranger to removing the tension from stallions, but it's usually a lot harder than simply asking them a question. To put it politely, her body is usually more useful than her mouth for that particular end. To put it not so politely, she hasn't met a problem that can't be solved with a good hard rutting. For most men, that's the cure to all ills.

His face hardens - again, Nyx is more accustomed to other things hardening around her, rather than facial features. She doesn't mean that arrogantly, as she is far from the most beautiful creature in the world, with her bland colouring and her somewhat butch build. But her lazy self-confidence - not to be confused with arrogance - and lack of fucks to give about most worldly issues is usually just what stallions want to hear. They don't want some whining oaf of a woman who starts thinking up wedding vows the second she meets them, or who spends her time begging for their eternal love, or who makes them swear a hundred times over that no, her ass doesn't look fat. They want someone with a sharp wit, with a mouth as vulgar as theirs, who doesn't equate sex with love and who doesn't demand devotion in exhange for her body. Nyx's anti-monogamy stance is, in the vast majority of cases, just what men like. Most despise it as much as she does, and embrace a mare who looks down on couples with the same derision that they do.

His ears flip backwards and he turns away, but still the silver soldier stands her ground. When he answers, it is neither a yes or a no - he speaks of love grown across time, rather than on the spur of the moment, and the mare's head dips in an agreeing nod, even though he's facing the other direction. Then, to her considerable surprise, he returns the question, asking about her experience of matters of the heart. A huffed heh is all she can initially say, until her shock subsides and she composes her mind enough to articulate a response. It shouldn't surprise her so much - she'd asked him a personal question, it's only fair she gets one in return.

But the mare is not one to mince her words. He might not like her answer, but she is brutally honest to a fault. "My outlook on life is a bit, ahem, different to most," she begins. How does she explain her opinion without coming across as a harlot? Not that she cares if he thinks that, but still, she would rather not gather that reputation if she can help it. Should she meet her end in the near future, she would far rather be remembered as that silver-tongued warrior who never backed down rather than that rancid whore who spread her legs more times than she'd eaten grass. "To put it bluntly, I don't believe in monogamy. I don't really believe in love, either. I've borne many children during my life, but none of their fathers have meant anything to me. I believe in strength, my dear Glazier. When I lived in the wilds outside Helovia, it was my duty as a herd mare to produce children for my king, but because I am a warrior, I do have standards. It may sound harsh, but life is too short to produce weak children who won't survive past foalhood, so I began to test my prospective suitors in battle. Only if they defeated me did they get to bed me." Those that didn't? Well, they could take their blue balls elsewhere, thank you very much.

"So, to answer your question - no, I have little experience in matters of the heart, because I don't believe in offering said heart out on a silver platter. It means I don't have to endure problems like yours, because it matters little to me if the father of my foal has dozens of other women on the side. In fact, I'd be quite alarmed if he didn't. We're not fucking swans - we don't mate for life. Sure, I have a certain amount of respect for couples whose love lasts their whole lives, but that isn't how I choose to operate. So if I was to give you advice, it would be that my way of living ensures you never have to worry about getting your heart broken. There's a lot to be said for it. If this experience has put you off monogamy for the forseeable future, then you're more than welcome to join me in this particular mindset. It's not perfect, but it works for me. Might work for you, too." She flashes him a small grin. Join the dark side - we have cookies.