"Everything, and more," she answers, closing her eyes. She lets the white dust land on her eyelids, lifts her muzzle towards the heavens and inhales slowly. She sucks in the air as readily as an addict taking on a line of coke, as if the icy air could give her a similar high to that a human might seek from narcotics. It tickles her nostrils, revitalising her.
She allows her lids to flicker open softly, the surrounding lashes coated in a fine frost mascara. The nameless horse before her, symbol of masculine beauty, is now unmasked with a name. Hurricane. A fitting name, she muses inwardly as she looks him in the eye, her honey iris's intent and focused. He reminds her of the turning waves as the ocean collapses, the lashing of hailstone and the calm mist after the storm. His mother named her son well, she thinks.
"I can't stay long. My home calls me back," she explains calmly, her voice silken with practised tone and melody. She turns her head, glances away into the direction of her homeland as the snow continues to fall all about them, to give them a privacy perhaps not accessible elsewhere in Beqanna. There are no walls here, but they are hidden by a curtain of snow.
"But first, let me ask, is there anything more I should come back and see?" she asks, sweet and suggestive and equal measure. She wants to close the space between them more than ever, she wants to reach her muzzle to his neck, feel the warmth of his blood pulsing beneath the skin, know that they are both alive and in the moment.
Perhaps, if he wants her to return again, she shall.
