not all demons have horns { any

words are mere wind

Of course, Azael had spied the other grey long before his purposeful approach. Like all the others who had chosen to meander about within the meadow on that day, the dappled wraith had taken note of him. Catalogued him. And subsequently dismissed him.

Until the other stallion chose to encroach on his space, of course. From that perch atop his little knoll, the Andalusian leveled his cool gaze upon the stranger, a single ebon-dusted ear flicked in his direction. The other remained turned toward the meadow. Ever watchful. Ever aware.

Goodday. Such a polite greeting and yet Azael had no words to give in return. He had never much been one for small talk. For niceties. Small words are for small minds, his dam had always said. Whether that was true or not, Azael couldn't rightfully say. But he could say that he had not had much practice with it all. And yet, the stud did still understand the importance of being civil.

Especially when one is a stranger in an even stranger land.

So it was that Azael dipped his head toward the other. A simple greeting. A polite acknowledgement. And thus began their conversational dance.

The other stallion easily took lead with an introduction. Brynmor, the grey said. Of the Tundra.

The Tundra. Silent, calm, the Andalusian scoured his memory, for the name had struck a familiar chord. For weeks now, he had simply been wandering, listening, watching. Taking note of all there was to see in these lands. The various territories. The peoples who ruled. Those who followed.

Ah, yes. The Tundra. The land of the stallions to the far north.

But Brynmor was not finished with his speech, it would seem. Oh, no. There was more. A question. You look like you've been waiting for something. Am I correct?

And thus was the grey wraith's icy demeanor chipped, a sharp inhale marking his amusement with the inquiry. "Aren't we all?" the stallion bantered in easy reply, his normally smooth baritone a little raspy from disuse as the words departed from the velveteen of his jet muzzle.

"Azael," the brute then went on to supply in simple introduction, as good manners demanded. A pause, then. Inhale. Exhale. Warm breath curling before him in a haze of mist. "Pleasure." Clearly an afterthought, that single word lingered in the air for a moment while Azael continued to study Brynmor in his usual way, his analytical way. Perhaps trying to ascertain the purpose of his approach on this bitter, winter day. One could guess at such motives. But one should never assume.

A few more beats of silence.

"I have never been good with such conversations," the stud finally confessed in a rather matter-of-fact way, shattering the stillness that had fallen between them. "So I must ask if this is a social visit or if there's something you want from me, Brynmor of the Tundra?"

Azael