She cannot pretend she hasn’t thought of him. The buckskin stallion has lingered in her mind over the past few months, clinging to her thoughts like a tiny little burr. Every day there’s a moment where he just … slips in. A moment where something inexplicably draws her back to their encounter. She still doesn’t understand why he’s had such a lasting effect. She’s met many stallions over the course of her long life (her sizeable brood of children is evidence enough of this), and he’s not that unusual by any means. He’s just well … tall, dark, handsome, regal, brooding (and yet somehow sassy at the same time) … But it’s more than that. She has, after all, met many stallions that could have fit that description. When she’d looked into his eyes she’d seen the years behind them, the depth. It’s more than the power he holds (he’d revealed much to her on that occasion) - it’s the connection. The kindred soul. And perhaps more importantly, he’d been rather fun to tease. Even now, as she ambles slowly through the trees, her mind flits back to their conversation and the jibes they’d traded. She can almost hear his voice, calling out to her through the forest’s thick trees … Oh! She freezes, one violet leg frozen mid-step. There’s actually is a voice filtering through the trees, and it is calling her name. And it happens to be a voice that she recognizes well. “I know you’re there, Azlyn. There is no use hiding from me. Not as if you could, with your purple ass hanging in the wind.” It must be. She can’t help but snort before calling out in reply - “how rude!” Trying to hide her the sudden enthusiasm surging in her heart, she forces herself to walk slowly in the direction of the voice. She slinks around a thick pine and the smell of seaweed and brine hits her like a wall. Her violet nose wrinkles delicately as she leans nonchalantly (or so she thinks) against the pine. It’s him alright, albeit greener and more weedy. She’d recognize those eyes anywhere. But she doesn’t want him to know that he’s been on her mind, so she keeps her tone dry and lazy, as if she’s simply encountering a small annoyance. A minor setback to her day. “A little hypocritical, don’t you think, to comment on the colour of a ladies’ behind when you look as if you’re being overtaken by mould.” Not her best, to be sure, but it will have to do when she’s been so suddenly put off guard. |
Still feeling her out.
