Conqueror. The word is nectar on her tongue, tantalizing, addictive. She repeats it with adoration and her eyes gleam with a coy mischief. That is what she is becoming, it seems, and her reputation precedes her as the stallion turns his attention toward her, away from his clan of homeless refugees. Nayl glances at each of them carefully, memorizing them, and her nostrils flutter as their scents barrage her. They are a motley crew with an air of tension that could be cut with a knife. One mare tried to nestle against this male, another jostling past, and a young boy speaking up. The other mare is silent and observant.
Only after scrutinizing each individual does Nayl shift her autumn eyes back to the male, a humored grin playing across her lips. ”The faeries’ breasts seem to be giving me luck so I’ll stay latched on for a while longer,” a rare bubble of laughter crawls from the depths of her throat. It’s lofty and almost serene how it disrupts the tension among them all. It seems that this new world has been a blessing after all. It brought a new light to her life, forced her from the stagnant life she led in the shadows of the Jungle. This new Beqanna has provided a platform for her to succeed and to gain power. The others see this, Waylan sees it. It’s flattering, really.
”Just checking out the sights and sounds, I suppose,” she hums with pleasure as her body shifts nonchalantly. ”I would wish you luck because that endeavor of yours would pit you against me and my own conquest. Although, I do seem to be a bit farther ahead seeing as your group,” she inclines her head to watch most of them leave, ”is dwindling.” She doesn’t indulge what power lies in her palms, what lands she has under her guard; that would be too pretentious, far too arrogant. After all, she has no qualm with them, not unless they interfere with her own plans. Call it curiosity that drew her to them, but perhaps even reassurance that there truly is no usurper in order.
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