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04-15-2016, 09:17 AM
The strawberry Queen approaches, this time clean of blood and of a dramatically different temperament than when the black had seen her last, snapping orders and dragging her rabid subjects to heel by the skin of their necks. Today she teases and cavorts, all the seriousness of her position laid aside. Albrecht watches her openly, noting the ease and smoothness of her prance (no doubt hard won through physical fitness) and mentally tracing the fringes of her pink blush where it drifts and fades across her body. Beautiful, he muses, but he says instead, "I'm afraid these legs have lost their grace, my Lady. I'm more of a dance-with-words kind of guy anymore."
He grins invitingly at the roan, but already she's turning her head to call into the cave and address their musician. The singing drops off abruptly and a figure emerges from the private space, her white splashed rump and opal-esque hooves materializing from the darkness just before the rest of her comes into sight, at least to the stallions failing eyes.
He doesn't remember seeing such a mare during the herd meeting, and he does imagine he'd remember colors and markings like those, but if she stood near the back or remained quiet through the worst of the squabbling he doesn't suppose he would have bothered looking around. She fumbles over her words for a moment and then drops to one knee ceremonially, raising a brow on the old mans wizened face. He looks to the rose-and-cream incredulously, expecting a quick dismissal of this type of showy ritual, but opts to let the woman accept her honors as she pleases and without his snide remarks.
What is it about the strawberry mare that puts him on his best behavior? He doesn't fear her as he does the Lord Deimos, her mentally and physically depraved partner in authority, but still he finds himself staying quiet when quips pop eagerly to his mind and lips. Perturbed, he glances behind the Queens shapely hips (though not without an appreciative lingering) to where her wolf-like companion rests, an accusation in his expression. Fucking mutts.
He grins invitingly at the roan, but already she's turning her head to call into the cave and address their musician. The singing drops off abruptly and a figure emerges from the private space, her white splashed rump and opal-esque hooves materializing from the darkness just before the rest of her comes into sight, at least to the stallions failing eyes.
He doesn't remember seeing such a mare during the herd meeting, and he does imagine he'd remember colors and markings like those, but if she stood near the back or remained quiet through the worst of the squabbling he doesn't suppose he would have bothered looking around. She fumbles over her words for a moment and then drops to one knee ceremonially, raising a brow on the old mans wizened face. He looks to the rose-and-cream incredulously, expecting a quick dismissal of this type of showy ritual, but opts to let the woman accept her honors as she pleases and without his snide remarks.
What is it about the strawberry mare that puts him on his best behavior? He doesn't fear her as he does the Lord Deimos, her mentally and physically depraved partner in authority, but still he finds himself staying quiet when quips pop eagerly to his mind and lips. Perturbed, he glances behind the Queens shapely hips (though not without an appreciative lingering) to where her wolf-like companion rests, an accusation in his expression. Fucking mutts.
@Fiachra
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