paint it black; revol

[Lior]

dark son of gunsynd

The pewter that glimmers in the depths of his eyes remain unflinching, watching when the young mare crashes into him. Well perhaps not crash, but more so colliding. Lior finds that as of lately his orbit has been drawing more and more horses to him. Does he regret his presence in Beqanna? No. For now he has known more faces and more names than he had ever had. No longer must he hide his face from the moonlight. And so another name is added to the list in his head. She is delicate but not in a fragile way. She is not a wax butterfly nor a crystal flower. She is wounded by something...though Lior can see no marks across her ruddy hide or the silver mask that encompasses her feminine features. Lior does steal her eyes, holding them as her watches her lips part to offer an apology. The dark stallion, smelling of earth and water, says nothing in return but simply grunts with a twisted frown. Long tangled tendrils of hair drip down the thickness of his neck, pushed to the right of his eyes. "Revol." It is all he says, her name grinding like glacier and granite in the darkness of his throat. Nostrils expand as he grasps her scent and analyzes it. Scent can tell so much about a horse, of their home...their mate...their nature. The hint of masculine pheromones seem to linger on her skin but they are faint. She gives off no inclination of a home but by her rebuttal, Lior can read that she does not come from a heathen herd but is in fact intelligent enough to admit fault where it is due. One heavily feathered hoof snakes out to draw him closer as he holds her eyes for a moment longer before he breaks the capture. "Lior." The return of his own name tastes foreign on his tongue. "What brings you to the meadow, Revol?" The question is an inquiry, nothing more. It is not malicious or coy but blunt and forward. The stallion flickers a lobe forward as he listens for a reply in the pool of moonshine that flooded around them at their feet. LIOR