Withdrawn. Such had been Azael's nearly constant state of being since he had ventured into this place. A stranger in an even stranger land. Withdrawn. Watchful. Waiting. And so it was that another day dawned and the too-bright rays of the winter sun found the grey wraith once again ghosting through the common lands, obsidian hooves crisp upon the dead, brittle stalks underhoof, his breath mere vapor swirling through the air before him. And as he moved, so too did his eyes, his ears - those latter ebon-dusted appendages swiveling to and fro atop his regal, Andalusian crown to catch the faint wisps of words uttered by the others in his passing.

Polite words. Meaningless words. The scarred brute had never seen the sense in them. Such words were mere wind without any weight to them. And what weight could polite observations about the weather truly carry?

Dull was the gaze he cast upon those others, his eyes so like twin shards of mahogany ice in their cool dismissal of mare and stallion alike. Though his outward demeanor was no doubt a frigid facade of sheer indifference, in truth, the stud was simply... bored. Perhaps even a touch disappointed. As of yet, there had been no one to catch his interest on this day.

Yet being the key word, of course.

And then, there she was. A flash of blue splashed against an otherwise colorless sky. The stud was immediately drawn to the color, the prick of his ears marking the sudden spark of his curiosity. With an arc of that elegant Andalusian neck, Azael lifted his head toward the heavens so that he could better observe that creature flying overhead. And in that observation, he felt his powerful legs slow, his frame draw to a pause. Frozen in that moment, as much of the world had already been frozen - too weak to resist the chill of that most unforgiving season.

Winter was indeed the cruelest of mistresses.

In silence did the stallion observe the mare's descent, her landing, the shimmer of a midnight-kissed sea upon her feathers as she folded those great wings along the supple curve of her back. Lovely. The word came unbidden to the stud's mind, a mere prick of thought on the very edges of his consciousness. A thought easily dismissed. Ignored. Shunned back into the recesses from which it had bloomed.

But not even the male carved from smoke and ice could fully deny the truth of such a silent declaration.

Inhale. Azael drank in deep of the crisp air, letting it bite at his nostrils, letting it burn his lungs. Exhale. More mist curled from the brute's ebon muzzle to dance in the space before him, like dragon smoke, yet far more insubstantial.

And far less deadly.

Only then did he push himself into motion once more, his steps light, his stride purposeful. Slowly did he make that approach, each sweep of his long legs devouring more of the ground beneath him until he was but a few lengths away from the mare painted in such celestial shades of black and blue. And there he slowed. And there he halted, dark eyes hooked upon the form of the winged creature even as his head lifted once more, even as his nares flared so that he could catch the female's scent, so that he could lavish in it, so that he could study it. But as for words, there were none. For what could possibly be said in such a moment?

Hello? No, no. What is your name? Never. Such niceties were useless. Such questions did not need to be pressed. And so it was that the one called Azael simply embraced the easy silence between them, letting it fall upon his broad shoulders like a mantle he always wore with such ease.

And so he watched.

And so he waited. 

And thus began their dance, that delicate exchange of glances, of mingled scents, of unvoiced curiosity and questioned motives. Warily did the mare approach and stoicly did the stud hold his ground, his frame quite motionless save for the expansion and contraction of his ribcage with each inhale and subsequent exhale, save for the misted stir of his breath in that space between them - a space which was swiftly closing with each passing second until the female was close, so close, too close, close enough to touch.

And touch she did. A simple caress, but a caress nonetheless. A brushing of her feather-tips from the point of his muscled shoulder down to the curve of his powerful hindquarters, the touch to his sensitive flank along the way drawing a faint twitch from the stallion's dappled pelt. Like the kiss of a gentle breeze, that touch came and then it left just as suddenly. And then the mare was circling him. With each step about the circumference of his form, Azael tracked the female's movements with his ears, with his eyes - the former flicking to and fro to catch the crunch of her hooves upon the earth, the latter watching her from his peripherals until she was before him once more, until he could study her in full.

And study her he did. Openly. Shamelessly. It's rude to stare at a lady, the mare had said, her words as brazen as her actions. Perhaps such an opening statement would have drawn a smile from another stud, mayhaps even a snort of amusement. But Azael was not one such stud. Silent as ever, he merely listened to the winged creature, his mahogany gaze fixed upon her amber, unwavering, unrelenting. Kimber. That was her name, the mare woven from midnight. Kimber. A curious name, but no more curious than any others he had heard in his lifetime, he supposed.

A pause, then. A moment taken for consideration. For reflection. But then it was the grey wraith's turn to move, to speak. And move he did, his tall frame lurching into motion, obsidian hooves sinking into the ground with decided steps to draw him even closer to the mare, to encroach upon her space just as she had encroached upon his. And speak he did, the smooth tones of his velvet baritone ringing out in the chillness of the season with such an utterance. "You must forgive me, then," came the stallion's first decree, his shoulder brushing hers in passing as he moved about her, as he circled her form in imitation of her own advance. "It is not every day one sees such a lady."

From the lips of another, such words surely would have been meant in flirtation. A blatant attempt at seduction. But from the ebon muzzle of the Andalusian, such words were simply matter-of-fact, a sheer declaration of the truth of the situation. Beyond that, the mare could interpret them as she pleased.

Around her rump the brute circled, close enough to kiss her with the stirring of air in his passing yet nothing more. But then he slowed, those purposeful strides halting as he came alongside her, as he arced his neck, as he allowed his muzzle to hover over her withers. Brazen. Unapologetic. Indeed he was close, yes, but not so close as to touch, to nip, to feel. No, nothing like that.

Instead, the stud simply breathed in, a deep inhalation, a shameless gulp of her scent. And in that scent, he searched, he searched for the acrid hint of... another. For such was the way of things from whence Azael had come. He had no experience with kingdoms, with mares holding ranks of their own accord, unattached to any male. Where he was from, there were simply herds and the various politics that inevitably came from such an arrangement. Where mares were possessions to be owned, to be protected, to be bred.

And so it was that the dappled wraith found himself trying to ascertain just who possessed this particular female with that inhalation, with that study of her unique aroma.

Assuming such a brazen act didn't leave the Andalusian castrated and bleeding on the ground, he would then move again, finally pulling himself away from the form of the mare to return to her front. "Azael," came his belated introduction, those three syllables ringing out with all the clearness of a chiming bell. The name of one of the fallen. A fitting name for the only son by his sire who dared to be born without the gift of wings. An angel never fit to fly.

"Where I come from is hardly important. As for what I am looking for," the male continued as his steps stilled, as his gaze leveled upon Kimber's countenance. "Perhaps it is the same as what you yourself are looking for."

Perhaps.

If I didn't know better, I'd say you were flirting, Azael. Such an accusation. The very idea. But perhaps he was. Perhaps. "Am I?" the stallion quipped in his smooth way, an almost dismissive note woven into the utterance of those twin words. And yet, there was no denying that subtle glint sparking from within the very depths of his dark gaze. A glint of amusement, perhaps? Perhaps.

More words. A gust of wind which sent the stallion's soot-touched tresses to licking at the cool air. A swoop of birds acknowledged only by a brief flick of the male's right ear. And then there was only Kimber once more, the mare of earth and sky alike, the mare who smelled of ash and heat and... nothing. Nothing. No one.

And finally, there. There was the truth. If we're being honest, I need a distraction. Soft was Azael's inhale. Immediate was his reply. "Oh, good," came that smooth baritone, as rich as honey, as cool as gold. "It would seem that we are, indeed, well-matched, then," the stallion went on to note, a single step drawing him close to the ombre mare once more so that he could bring his regal skull alongside hers, so that he could let his warm breath caress the very space next to her ear when he queried, "And how shall we distract one another?"

A pause. A moment given to allow such words to take root, to spark possibilities. And in that silent closeness, he lingered. Close enough to touch, to claim, to command. But, no. This creature was not his to touch, not his to claim, not his to command. And so he resisted, that momentary lapse in judgment from before dismissed. Forgotten.

Another moment spent in silence. And then the scarred brute was supplying his own suggestion, before the celestial mare could have an opportunity to truly consider his offer, to properly reply. "Race me, Kimber," he exhaled into that stillness between their two forms. An odd request, perhaps. A juvenile past-time reincarnated in this moment.

But there was more. Of course there was more. "No wings," Azael went on to specify, setting the first term for the match. "There." Without drawing away from her side, not yet, not yet, the dappled wraith tipped his head toward that nearby tree playing host to the trio of blackbirds. The second term. It would be a short run, a mere sprint to sharpen the senses, to heat the blood. But it would be enough.

And finally, the last of the terms. What was at stake. The prize.

"The last one there must answer a most personal question."

Such a line was delivered in a bare hiss of sound, a challenge released on the wings of a fleeting breath. Beyond that, there was nothing to do but wait. To watch.

To breathe.