Naia is listening to Mary’s offering with cautious openness, curiosity piqued by her mention of “playing rough.” That is certainly not something she minds, and it might give her an answer as to why she has been so terribly hard on herself. She does not respond immediately for she is interrupted by the calling grin and handsome voice of a much older stallion. The roan filly lifts her head much higher, immediately suspicious of the man’s charm, rejecting the enchantment he demands but not totally immune. She ignores his gaze, a growl building in the back of her throat for the attention of a man is totally foreign to her.
“Perhaps,” is her only response to Ivar, cool brown eyes flicking harshly down his frame.
The smooth arabian tilt of Naia’s head is angled to reply to Mary when yet another makes their entrance. She turns to his stocky frame with a mild start, first surprised then irritated that so many have gravitated toward her (and two of the three are giant stallions). She stares at him defiantly, ears flicking back and forth but still almost pressed back in agitation. The chestnut yearling curses her youth a moment later, angry that she cannot control the impulse of her age. Militant poise and height possessed, she softens her gaze and watches Leilan’s glimmering scales as he speaks.
Naia notes the last one’s words, ever observant. She also does not fail to see the way he looks at her, different from Ivar but still unwelcome. The way he peers back to the kelpie without addressing her ignites the tiniest flame of anger in her chest: speak to the diplomats, but not a nomad? Even if that is not his intention, Naia is quick to jump to that conclusion under the stress of so many confident personalities.
“Where are you from?” she directs at the scaled equine, eyes closing to slits that do not try to hide her displeasure. Will he not offer her a home, as well? The other two forgotten, she zeroes in on Leilan, only then recognizing the gold in his mane.
Her eyes soften. Surely that is a coincidence.
“Perhaps,” is her only response to Ivar, cool brown eyes flicking harshly down his frame.
The smooth arabian tilt of Naia’s head is angled to reply to Mary when yet another makes their entrance. She turns to his stocky frame with a mild start, first surprised then irritated that so many have gravitated toward her (and two of the three are giant stallions). She stares at him defiantly, ears flicking back and forth but still almost pressed back in agitation. The chestnut yearling curses her youth a moment later, angry that she cannot control the impulse of her age. Militant poise and height possessed, she softens her gaze and watches Leilan’s glimmering scales as he speaks.
Naia notes the last one’s words, ever observant. She also does not fail to see the way he looks at her, different from Ivar but still unwelcome. The way he peers back to the kelpie without addressing her ignites the tiniest flame of anger in her chest: speak to the diplomats, but not a nomad? Even if that is not his intention, Naia is quick to jump to that conclusion under the stress of so many confident personalities.
“Where are you from?” she directs at the scaled equine, eyes closing to slits that do not try to hide her displeasure. Will he not offer her a home, as well? The other two forgotten, she zeroes in on Leilan, only then recognizing the gold in his mane.
Her eyes soften. Surely that is a coincidence.
@[Mary] @[Leilan] @[Ivar]