For a proud and strong-willed mare, Nyx is unafraid to show respect to those who deserve it. It is how she has lived, in the wilderness that separated her times in Isilme and Helovia - as part of a herd, lead by a stallion. That stallion, once he had earnt her respect, also needed her submission. Where there is insubordination, there is infighting, and that means weakness. Nyx is not a leader. She is a soldier, and every soldier should know when they are defeated. Every soldier should hold great respect and deference for those who have bested them in battle.

Especially those who best them so firmly.

And if the fallen soldier gets to do the dirty with her conquerer, then even better.

Nyx dislikes eye contact at the best of times (only predators stare) but one of the most primitive ways of showing submission is to drop her gaze. She only peeks upwards when she hears the rustle of feathers, to see that he's flared his wings to increase his already impressive size. She likes big men. It's genetic - some deep-rooted instinct drives her to seek out size and strength, with the logic that it will create bigger, more durable foals. She has never borne a child with a male under seventeen hands, and it's served her well - she's not lost a foal yet (although Reginald nearly spoiled that perfect record with his sudden craving for infanticide, a memory that she firmly forces away, because it's horrible enough to make her never want sex again ever and that's not ideal when she's faced with the prospect of some naughtyness with Helovia's resident adonis).

He's closer now, and his masculine ripple of a voice is oozing through each and every nerve in her body. Less experienced, purer mares might tremble with fear at the notion of having this big sex-exuding hunk looming over them, but Nyx is no quivering virgin. This ain't her first rodeo, and she know what follows is pretty damn good. The foals aren't, of course, but there's that little voice in the back of the silver's head that points out she should be honoured to bear this warlord's child, should that happen. That child could be great...certainly, it'd have the correct genetics for it. And certainly, this one is a damn sight more mentally stable than her last conquest. As long as she doesn't get two offspring for the price of one again.

She contemplates asking if he's got a history of siring twins, just in case. But that's one hell of a mood killer, and it's not like either answer would deter her from this path she's on.

For that, she muses with a sardonic huff, Mother Nature's probably going to damn me with fucking quadruplets.

His muzzle's touch is so soft, she wonders if she's imagined it. She lifts her skull (wincing slightly as her flesh tightens and tugs against her many bruises) and chances a swift glance at that handsome face of his. Mmm, yes. His touch is practiced (it clearly isn't his first rodeo, either) and she returns it with a twitch of her muzzle, which she seeks to press to the hard muscles of his neck. He says his name, then trails off - with a wicked grin and one daring glance at his eyes through her own electric-sizzling blues, the grey completes his sentence for him. "Gaucho's about to get lucky," She appreciates that he's taking his time, but she's not a fan of delayed gratification - she's a woman who knows what she wants when she wants. Plus the longer she waits, the more chance of getting cold feet and letting Dominus dissuade her from something she knows she wants, because she's weak as balls and can't resist a good seeing-to. Especially by this dreamboat of a stallion.

So she swings her hindquarters towards him and peeks flirtatiously over her shoulder, a clear invite to share a different kind of physical contact.