It can be quite the tricky task of moving hair from your face without the use of any hands but the young stallion manages. Clumsy but entertaining and with the slightest hint of embarrassment surfaces when he has finally completed the task of being able to see past those pale hairs. A satisfied and almost smug 'so there!' look crosses his face before the voice of a woman rouses him from his little dilemma.
Turquoise hued pool meet the most splendid face he had yet to lay his eyes on...just as the forelock casually slips back. He tosses his head eagerly and thank the gods of Beqanna, it stays put. Her voice is light like a delicate snowflake, disappearing if you strained to capture it. She was the lovely hue of a hibiscus flower and rare as an orchid in winter but instantly Van can determine what he likes best is the way the slightly darker stripes gentle caresses her limbs. She is smaller than the stallion but nonetheless respectable. Pools trickle over her face, tracing it and holding the almost pit-less depths of her eyes. Inky and endless.
She is electric. He can only witness what stands before him. Lobes flick to catch her introduction and it surges in his veins, his mind. The magenta woman is delicate and soft but beneath there is a rawness that he senses. It takes a moment for Van to shake his woodenness and for life to appear. He had seemed to zone out, hypnotized. A silly crooked smile crosses his masculine features and eyes lower for a moment but only to lift and meet the mare's gaze. "Oh-yes, well..." Van is awkward were seasoned stallions would not be. He stumbles over his words where more experienced males would sing sticky honey words in the presence of such a lovely mare.
A moment passes between them and Van allows the silence to drift between them, eyes upon each other and he smiles for her. Of sunshine and honeysuckle, the warmth of that smile is shown for those dark, dark eyes of Marjorie. He tries to hide his own shyness, never one for much interaction honestly but this time around someone had pluck themselves up and placed themselves in his path.
And so our sweet golden boy must conjure up his courage and talk to the curious, beautiful, delicate, gentle, pretty Majorie that had gone out of her way to ask his name.
So there was a debt owed.
"Van." Short, simple. Easy to forget. Polls drifts away from her own and he refocuses on the roll of the meadow, scared he could go blind if he gazed any more deeply upon her face but much like a moth to the flame he can not seem to stand to tear his view from her eyes, her lips, her mane. The way her jaw moves with her smile, the flare of her nostrils with each breath draws him in like a lullaby and he allow himself to surrender to her private psalm. He can only smile and meet her gaze with those warm turquoise eyes. "Please call me Van, Marjorie." Their names on his tongue are like peppermint and cinnamon, hot and cold and vivid and oh so bright! So much is happening behind the green-blue eyes of the palomino but he is not scared but in fact embraces it. It had been so long since he had felt something other than the touch of the wind against his skin or the sound of crows in the trees above. He can not recall the last time he had felt something other than the elements. He can not recall any emotional connection ever.
slowdownslowdownslowdown
A breath is drawn slowly inward and released after a few moments lapse "I am rather new to the meadow, I suppose." The small smile touches his lips easily again, slightly crooked but genuine. "How about yourself?" He is curious about her and is delighted that she should find him of all equines in the meadow. Bronze ears both forward to her, attention fully engaged by the syllables to come from the vibrant lips.
Van
white sand and turquoises water
Your words are GORGEOUS! Mine are poop and I'm sorry. I'll work on getting Van worthy of Marjorie.