05-27-2016, 12:23 AM
is it sick of me, to need control of you?
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.
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.
Azael