The passion of victory shimmers unabashedly in the crystalline depths of my friend's blue eyes. I wonder privately as to what overcoming the consequences of the contagion must feel like, trying to imagine the sickness and the downfall, followed by the healing and the recovery. I can relate in some ways, having recovered from a suicide attempt long ago, but the two fail to be exactly parallel in nature. By both choice and by great luck, my wife and I have managed to avoid the sickness which so plagues Beqanna. In the end, this fact gladdens me, despite how Sabra's victorious air so thrills me.
Thrilling things oughtn't come at the near expense of one's life.
"Exhilarating, and deadly," I comment blandly, shifting my weight and casting my gaze away from the mare opposite me. A secret smile touches my lips with the words. Of its origin I offer no explanation, however, choosing instead to wait for Sabra's next words. A little hum precedes them, sounding at once like a gentle wind and the rumble of thunder.
I swore I'd kick your ass the next time I saw you, for making me feel that much pain.
A curt laugh cuts through the air around us, bringing with it a turn of my head. Immediately noting her blatant admiration of my rear end, my ears press close to my skull, hips swiveling decidedly such that the only part of me that she may gaze at is my front, complete with pronged antlers and all. The threat of my positioning dissipates easily with a roll of my nutmeg eyes, however, with my ears flicking forward as though nothing had happened.
"Well, I am always up for a good tiff - if that's really what you're here for then I am happy to oblige you." My eyes go briefly to the sky, which rumbles now in ominous warning. "But if you'd rather just appreciate the scenery," I say nonchalantly, eyes falling back to hers with a cocked brow, "I shall have to leave you to it, my friend. My wife awaits me; the hour is late."