So she doesn't quite know what it is that's making her quite so flirtatious. Maybe it's the fact he's so devilishly handsome, and so obviously up for it that she recognises him as an ample opportunity, a kindred spirit. Maybe it's the chill in the air, or the fact she's not had a good hard pounding in far too long. Or maybe - and this notion is quickly crushed - it's because she has just finished her heat, and the aftereffects are lingering. Just finished is the optimum word, as she's 99.99999% sure there's no chance of pregnancy - nature would not be such a bitch as to allow her to get knocked up again when her milk is still drying from her last children.

Well, maybe she's 99.99988% sure. That's still good enough odds for her to shunt the nasty little thought into the back of her mind and concentrate instead on the potential that lingers in this grey-stone beast.

He's a silver-tongued womanizer, a loose-moraled casanova who undoubtedly has women fawning at his feathered feet, and for some mares that might be a turnoff, a deal-breaker that would bid their ears to pin and their hooves to kick. Those who hunt for monogamy, who demand faithfulness - prissy little asswipes, as Nyx likes to call them - would flee at the sight of this stallion, who probably can't even say monogamy let alone practice it. But not for the ironheart. For her, it's the most attractive thing in the world. A man who is free to be a man, not a faux-male gelded by his wife. "You know what they say, handsome - if you keep telling lies like that, your nose will grow. Maybe it already has...oh, wait! My mistake..." Her eyes glimmer with wicked fire, her gaze dribbling like liquid filth down his body, down, down. She gives a false, girlish gasp. "...that's not your nose." And she flashes him a wink.

He moves past her, giving her plenty of chance to devour each salacious curve of his body, each devilish hunk of man-meat. He snorts, speaks again, and his evasiveness draws another smirk across the silver's refined features. "Boy? And here was me thinking I'd stumbled across a man." Her gaze darts pointedly down again, before returning to flicker across his face at his question. "Oh, nobody of importance. Just a poor, dreadfully lonely woman trapped in the frozen north, without even the warmth of a stallion to guard her against the chill." She steps closer, sending a cloud of snow away from her hooves; her tail arches, her neck with it, and she reaches up to whisper hot breath in his ear. "Alas, a boy cannot keep her warm. But, perhaps, if he could prove he was a man, if he could put her in her place..." She steps away, and as she withdraws she aims a sharp nip for his right shoulder; an invitation to dance. Ardour-addled she might be, but she has her policies - she will not be bedded without first being defeated. Only the strong are worthy to mount her, even if no child comes of it.

Which it won't. Of course.