which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are.
Her coat isn’t just simply white. As his eyes adjust better to the daylight (and to her), Tarian can find himself studying her. It isn’t a trick of the eye. She shimmers a kind of blue-haloed light that becomes more apparent when she shifts her gaze. He’s so intent on watching the way that the breaking day changes her few-spotted pelt that he almost misses the way her eyes shift from pink to indigo.
Almost.
Tarian decides against remarking on it. For now. The frost has just left her voice and he has no (deliberate) intention of inviting it back again.
He can find merit in her answer and hears it for what it is: honest. Just the last couple of mornings, she says. The smile she gives him full of ice and it sets him a little on edge. "I’m very rarely lucky,” Tarian says, not quite clipping the words but he struggles to keep them away from the ledge he stands on. It's a struggle for him not to exacerbate their conversation. Lack of sleep, an unknown land, foolishly blinding himself; like this hours-old dawn, Tarian's temper is short.
The stallion feels his jaw tense and then he sighs, deciding not to let his temper get the better of him (again) when he addresses her again.
"If you don’t feel like calling me Lucky, you could try Tarian.”
TARIAN
@[Altissima]