you could break my heart in two, but when it heals, it beats for you
The little mustang lifts her face toward the sky, shaking her fore lock out of her eyes. The heavens were a clear cerulean when she arrived here but now a few thin ribbons of cloud have pushed in. A very distant sound of thunder turns her gaze towards a far away darkness on the horizon but sunlight ripples over the gold in her hide with every movement. The thunderheads seem to be rolling toward the pampas and though she loves the sun the prospect of seeing a summer storm break over the plain is almost too much to resist.
Her eyes refocus on the foreground when she turns toward the west and she pauses, a hoof hovering and then settling back into the grass. The intent hunger that had lit her face a moment before falls away as she traces his merlot shape in the shadow, antlered and still.
Her emotions live just under her skin, and she is not given to tempering their intensity, though she can conceal herself or be cold (something she has learned since coming here, like vengefulness and rage). Sometimes she pulls herself in to consider something: her thoughts and feelings tumbling over one another, tasting and wrestling, behind her beautiful, motionless face.
How placid she is, as she gazes at him and takes in the intensity of his stare, the set of his features. They are strangers and yet she almost imagines he is displeased by the sight of her. The stallion is jaggedly beautiful, but it is midmorning and he is the kind of man whose arms she might fall into in dark places and deep nights. She finds she would rather know his name. Dropping her chin, Kensa keeps her eyes on the stallion as she moves diagonally into the shade of a tree a stone’s throw from the forest’s edge. She has come halfway, giving up the full sunlight in a kind of negotiation. She can’t reason out why she is doing it but once she is standing near the thick old trunk she turns her gold-trimmed ears toward him and her silvery voice bridges the last of the distance. “Wont you come over here?” No simper or plead, just a question for a summer’s day.
Kensa
@[brigade]
