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Crisp, cool, exhilarating is the taste of fresh water as it hits her throat, quenching the parched flame that had been eating at her for some time. Larkspur smacks her lips and licks them in crude indifference, droplets rolling down her chin and back from whence they came, and she sighs, contented. That’s when the blue mare sees him. From the shadows appears a unicorn darker than she, seeming to emerge from the darkness as if he were made of it, conceivably an apparition to a travel worn mind on the brink of mental exhaustion. But she sees him breathe, hears his words drop like stones, heavy and deep and resonating. She ackowledges his presence, his speech, with a cursory flick of a single ear in his general direction, but does not respond immediately. Instead Larkspur watches like a creature wide-eyed and entranced by a fire, as the forest and foliage and living things turn to nothing in his wake. Instinct as old as time commands her to flee, but stubborn pride and her tendency to reside within the realm of those more tenacious keep her grounded where she stands.
Everything dies.
Larkspur remains in the stream, her subconscious mind projecting the idea that she was safer in the water, as if it were a barrier between her and him, whatever he was. Deimos' question rolled around in her mind, but Larkspur was uncertain of an answer, uncertain of anything. She takes a defensive stance, facing the dark stallion, ears flattening against her skull in fair warning that the beast keep his distance, black lacey tendrils of hair falling across her eyes. Other questions sprout immediately from the wellsprings of her thoughts, but she remains silent still, not afraid, but weary of the unknown. Yet despite her characteristically cynical skepticism and immediately guarded nature, she did have manners. Just not very well developed ones, the result of a mother who had tried and failed. Perhaps in her naivity of young age she could have stood to attempt a more diplomatic approach to strangers such as this, the kind that were blatantly larger, and more harmful than even the fiesty mare was capable of protecting herself from in the state she was in. However, formalities and cordiality were not in her vocabulary, and it was likely they never would be.
"Aye, perhaps." The mare’s words are bold and clipped, gold eyes locked to the wilted, withered grass beneath the stallion's hooves, before slowly traveling upward to meet dark blue eyes. She stares back at him with blatant ferocity, a look clearly portraying that she was not to be mistaken for some foolish, weak creature who had wandered into the woods, despite what her appearance might have alluded. "But of what matter is it to you?"
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[BASIN] Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any]
