Merry Christmas, you filthy animal
He doesn't go unnoticed. Not much was missed by the red eyes that burn like forest fire coals beneath the long lashes that amplify her features. Slaybell has learned from the (many) past mistakes to be the careful. She watches the way these men move, lumbering and awkward before they claim a woman's reproductive organs as their own humping and fighting till they grow tired of the responsibility, till their ears are full of sobs and their shoulders are damp from tears.
Slaybell is a cautious girl with cunning eyes and a tinker's smile.
She can tell he had once been vibrant and bright like a fresh flame but the grey that peppers his skin and the scars scattered across his once tan hide can be read like a map to the keen eye. Slaybell allows him to near though she notes his distance once he is close enough to make eye contact. Her own rubies are intrigued by his mismatched pair. He certainly was a story book of intangible words.
The emerald mare does not say anything but instead continues to tug at the tender shard of grass, the warm heat of summer drawing a glisten across her green hide. She chooses to let the silence settle between them as she was curious to which he would allow. Most horses insisted upon babble to fill an empty space, uncomfortable with silence.
Then finally, "I'm Slaybell." She lifts her head, the muscles of her cheeks still working to consume the vegetation, red hair lifting and falling like a small banner in the early evening air.
❄ Slaybell ❄
The Christmas Bitch