yael

The gold’s reaction should be familiar, if one has ever watched a scared pup cower from a perceived threat, only to realize that the danger was entirely non-existent, and return after substantial sniffing around and wary observation. Wide eyes narrow as she watches the winged behemoth take notice of a trinket on the ground before him - she does not look away to see her own - not yet, but studies the giant as he moves. The easy grin, his relaxed body language, and the warm cheer from the tree cast him all in a favorable light.

The thing is that Yael doesn’t want to see any smooth-talking man in a favorable light. She shakes her head, more to herself than anyone else. A new life here is fine and manageable while she can shut her heart up in a tempered steel cage and throw the key into a swamp. Not knowing how she came to be here, or what has happened to her family is a bitter pill that she can swallow every day. Living a mortal life means that one day, this too, shall pass. But flirting? Oh no, that small, unwanted compliment is too much for her fragile psyche to accept - not when she’d inadvertently killed the last stallion who hit on her.

Lyanna’s worried voice grabs her attention, and rather than draw someone else into her own little mindfuck headspace, Yael denies her assistance. She can’t quite see the teal-and-black mare over (or through) the mass of horses, so she tries to call out in a reassuring manner. “Leeanna! I ahm fine. I vill meet you back at ze Edge,” before turning back to Gaal. When she does, she finds him… simply breathing. Leisurely. Measured. As if he’d taken some sort of Lamaze class and was trying to guide her into calmness with gently flared nostrils. Again, Yael takes his multiple colors in, his great big wings, and his towering, broad body.

A swallow (gulp), as tall ears swivel to catch his low question. “Yael.” Yah-el, she says, in a markedly foreign lilt. Her tongue flips fluently over words, but always in an acrobatic way, for it could not ever simply ‘walk’ between syllables - that would be too easy. “I ahm sorree,” she offers as an explanation. “You remind me of a ghost.”

yael

She chuckles uneasily, mostly because it feels so wrong to find his obvious antics amusing. It is not the laughter itself that seems improper (has she not laughed with other women? It brought no sense of shame), but the company. Because as much as she knows she shouldn’t want it, she does. Gaal’s attention is flattering. It signals a change from the bedraggled and wrecked, perpetually cold slip of a thing she was when Lyanna found her. Perhaps there was more meat on her bones, a greater sheen to her coat? A tad more confidence in where she was going? It never once crosses her mind that she might simply be easy prey for a smooth-talking stallion - hopefully her spidey senses are better than that.

“Ahhh, yes. I can see t’at.” She responds, letting her gaze roam over his display, before averting her eyes. But that isn’t quite right either, so she tries to settle them on his face. Trying, ever trying, to ignore the heat of his gaze, and painfully conscious of his scrutiny.

Goddamn if he wasn’t just her type, too. There was some sort of cliche in the way the tiny woman gravitated towards the winged, draft-types; the natural strength and protection their bodies promised her, the way she fit neatly under a wing (sometimes with room to spare), the pure solidness of their muscles that seemed to be able to withstand hurricanes and hellfire. As if they (nevermind it was all imagined) would be the heroes she wanted as a filly, stuck in a world that hinged entirely on what type of stallion wanted her as a mate.

Eventually, Yael learned to be her own heroine - and even took to saving others - but a girl’s fantasies never truly die, do they? Not when a certain tingling sensation lingers long after the cock crows to summon the sun.

She is about to ask about his accent and name, but he strikes first - and it is a question she is not prepared to answer. Not only has she avoided almost all discussion of her Van, but to talk of him to another stallion? Hell no. That’s just asking for waterworks. What could she say? ‘What I meant was you remind me of my mate, whom I loved so much that I went into death to retrieve, and then accidentally killed years later. You should have seen the look on his face when he was unraveling.’ Yeah… no. Even after a few drinks, that sort of thing doesn’t go over well. So she tries something simpler: “Never. But eet ees too compleecated for mere ackaintences to talk about.” There. That should shut it down.

But she doesn’t want to shut him down, so without missing a beat, she continues, “Do I detect an accent, Gaal? Vhere are you from?” Deflection: she’s gotten good at it.

yael

Dear G-d, he is persistent! A dark thought flashes in the link between her brain and eyes - ever so brief, just the faintest spark of annoyance and ire in her rich, expressive gaze- but it is quickly buried by the little mare’s astounding willpower. Mind over matter. Control. Paint the prettiest picture and hope that is enough. Use your diplomacy, she thinks. For vague, non-answers were once her speciality.  

“Perxaps,” Yael concedes, with a small, tight smile, deigning to swallow what she wanted to add as a caveat, I can alvays use more friends. She’s learned that hope is a useful tool, and if when they meet again, he will most likely remember her as the mare who left the door open a crack, rather than the mare that shut, locked, and threw away a key. Stallions like Gaal are useful. She doesn’t want to be manipulative, truly, nor does she think he is a fool - but size and position have placed her in need of allies (for lack of a better word).

Or so her wounded, scarred, and triggered heart tells herself. But oh, it is a tricksy thing, and mastered self-preservation long ago.  

Dorobo he says, and Yael can only shrug a little to indicate that she is not familiar with that name. “I, too, am from far avay from xear.” Worlds and ‘rips in time and space’ kind of far away, but she does not say that. “An area called Tzion, in ze land of Yisrael. And t’en anozer place, called B’kanna. And now - “ She tosses her head to make light of all the different homes she’s had. A quiet, tinkling sort of half-laugh, half-sigh falls from her lips as she names what will surely be her final home - her resting place, her deathbed. “- seemply Yael of Xelovia.” She cocks a hind leg in comfort and resettles herself, wing-tips accidentally grazing his own. “Ah, sorry. Are you xere out of necessity or xappenstance?”

Though her questions only scratch the surface and are the stuff of small talk, there can be no mistake that they are sincere and she is genuinely interested in this multi-colored titan before her. Even now, she finds herself at ease under his often intent, piercing, and flirtatious gaze (don’t think she hasn’t notice the lust that flashes in their depths), for it is a heat she is well-accustomed to, and it can never be as intense as what came before.

But she will never say no to a nice long visit to a sauna.