His ears flicker this way and that, turning into the direction of an unfamiliar, female voice. Albeit his comfort spends its time in vaults of claustrophobic, sylvan dark, Skywalker admits that he is no more than a horse and much in the manner of the horse suffers from poor night-vision. Skywalker narrows his eyes and feels her on a cool gust of wind that passes him by. He hears her long before he sees her and readies himself for a tumble in the weeds of cordiality – a neutral, dry smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, softening his unkempt appearance, if only slightly.

For a long while he is quiet, considering the coincidence of her eyes, that they too are as blue as his. Not quite as icy, perhaps, but blue nonetheless. This is a meeting as any other and he can count a myriad of them under his black skin, his veins run thick with memories of strangers and reunions and welcomes and goodbyes. But Skywalker, in his own, restrained way, treats this as something pristine, newfangled. Precious, even. She is young, he thinks. “Skywalker,” he answers simply, softly and his voice seems strangely aglow as it presses itself through the dark. There is no need for him to thank her for her welcome, he decides, and lets the silence flow into the crater his name has left, proceeding instead to let his eyes wander over her.

Skywalker is drawing conclusions and formulating judgments in the quiet of his mind. The stallion is hopelessly enamored with this game of his, ever calculating, ever drawing parallel lines: he is constantly toying with unfinished pictures of the creatures he comes across. He steps a little closer, ignoring the possibility of the filly’s ‘personal space’ and letting the quiet and the dark swirl like tendrils of smoke between them. His own expression he keeps adamantly in check, a diligent master of his own moves, harnessing his voice, every word that bedews his lips – reading without being read. He touches her, strokes his sooty muzzle against her withers, unmindful of what retribution it may or may not befall him. “So, show me this place,” he shrugs and moves his head in a sweeping, indefinite manner. A slow, curious gleam somewhere in his eye, the flick of an ear and something mild, humble buried at the nadir of his wish. He touches her again, this time blowing his warm breath down the length of her neck, “I’ll owe you a favor.”

S K Y W A L K E R.

She smiles and it runs off him like water.

Perhaps it is her tender age that cajoles her into what he weaves: a deranged, sticky web of insincerity and lies. Perhaps she is so disposed to accept his brazen gestures simply by a gregarious nature that he does not understand. It makes no difference. Skywalker knows how to play it, how to mold that precious innocence in his cupped palms – careful as if it were a drop of water – into something as ugly as the prominent curve of his nose. And though he holds a feverish aversion to intimacy he suffers it nonetheless, clenching his teeth when she buries her soft muzzle in his mane. Her touch is like a bolt of electricity that crashes through his skin and sends him, if only for a second, whirling out of the long shadow of his restraint. Unexpected.

He moves away from her touch.

Holding her gaze he notices how her pupils dilate and for a moment he considers how bravely the young mare meets his own, cold eyes. A shiver of satisfaction attaches itself to him and he allows for it to cling to him for the briefest of moments before he shakes it into the ground; the vulpine grin that slowly crawls across his lips is a thespian one. Harmony has been slung into a dangerous game, or has she slung herself willingly into the ruthless diversions that Skywalker entertains himself with? Moving sideways he gestures for her to lead the way through the dark. “But you see,” his voice is perilously intoxicating, like absinthe, “I always repay the favors done to me.”

A pause and a thin little smile, “I’m sure you’ll think of something, in due time.”

Only, Skywalker has a strange way of repaying that which is owed.

S K Y W A L K E R.

Word count: 301
OOC: Sky is going to join the asylum, but I figure he can be sneaky and not tell her and just tag along too see what she's all about?

“I didn’t think you were,” a honeyed murmur slips past his lips and into the dark. Skywalker speaks as if he were something else, something gregarious and easy instead of that dangerous gleam in his eyes. A gust of wind caresses him and gently lifts his mane so that it mingles with and melts into the gloom – despite the uncomely curve of his nose he possesses a strange allure, crude and unlikely. She still smells of adolescence and, relative to him, carries the rosy scent of innocence; these are things that intrigue him, things that he craves. And so, callous purpose settles on his slanting shoulders, perched there together with the shadows that seem to belong to him.

“That is irrelevant, precious friend. Whomever it concerns I always repay my debts,” now his mouth is by her ear and he whispers, employing a voice light as whipped cream. Regardless of what wariness he might have instilled in the young mare, there is no need for him to doubt his ability in this game as his hot breath curls up against her again. Patience, someone had taught him long ago, and with this little tender thing he intends to be patient – she is so young! Remembering his own youth and the grand schemes and lavish dreams – long since dead and buried – that he filled his head with, Skywalker imagines the brightness of her dreams and ambitions. He imagines them and savors the thought, taking great pleasure in planning how he would best turn them to ash. The wraithlike stallion intends, simply, to make her his own, in a most disturbing manner. “I insist,” he tugs gently at her ear and it is believable, an admirable display of mischievousness. The way she holds his avalanche-gaze amuses him, that childish boldness quickens his appetite, “we all need something, there must be a thing or two I could do for you.” He steps close again, the light-starved, wilting grass bends willingly for him – as she too will do, in due time. With a sudden, dreamy expression nestled among the cusps and crevices of his proud face he slowly slips his muzzle down the soft curve of her neck, to her withers where he gives her a gentle nudge. A boyish, unpredictable smile spreads on his lips but his eyes do not glitter, they remain cold and aloof. “Shall we?”

S K Y W A L K E R.


WC: 395
OOC: Or we just play it out and see what happens?
Harmony