It is not often that she is the one standing in place and staring. Though she frequently turns an openly interested look on strangers that catch her eye, her attention span tends to be short. There is something about this other woman that is just different enough to hold her attention, to make it tumble to a stop, really. “Hello.” The greeting is off her lips before she realizes it, the syllables clean and clear, if a little surprised. Kensa is often the first to approach, charming and direct, disarmingly down-to-earth despite her appearance. Usually she is off and going in a conversation before the object of her interest can manage to process that she’s hurled her name at them or even taken their eyes off the gold freckling her skin.
“I’m Kensa. I was staring.” This introduction is followed shortly by a bemused confession. It is her turn to step nearer and her sturdy limbs bring her within reach of the other mare, so that she might reach out and greet her. The chestnut only offers her muzzle to the tall stranger rather than pressing in to touch like she once might have. Physical connection no longer feels as simple or effortless, not to mention it is too fraught. She’s lost too much, destroyed too much in the last year to feel comfortable with herself or the influence of her beauty. These thoughts have no place in a simple meeting like this and she pushes them back, not entirely sure why they bare on her now except that the differences between the dark mare and herself are an attractant of sorts.
Drawing her chin in the small sabino tips an ear to the side, listening to a pair of chickadees that have claimed the winter-berry in her absence. Her eyes remain on the wintry-woman, calm but curious. “I am from Hyaline. To the north. The mountains. Where have you come from?”
