SO RICH, SO PRETTY
Pleasant warmth spreads, dropping off somewhere past his groin. Her husky, hushed reply is quite pleasing, sending all the wrong yet somehow right signals through his entire body. She boasts a gleaming smile, before gingerly pressing her lips to his skin. His boiling skin and twisting gut is short lived, someone else has caught the gold females eye.
Kirin raises his own hazel stare to the colts, two rather uninspiring things. On any other given day he himself would not have taken a second look at them. At first he raises a brow to the silver brown that comes forth. Kirin loved to judge others based on their appearance, it was a rather fun game. Barely any winners though, his standards were just too high to meet. Upon further inspection he decides the coloring is decent, but nothing noteworthy. All that aside, the child is awkward and tall, but the height does not surprise him. Their father was tall, a fearsome iron beast, his oversized form still resting on the cliffs. ”Well don’t you smell awful.” He drawls snidely, openly scrutinizing the boy. “Gates clover is that?” He frowns, knowing all too well what kind of soft hearts they breed. “You’re not being fed properly.” He continues to observe him out loud, practically irate at this, his gray eyes narrowing.
It is then that another drab foal finds their group. Nicia is quick to approach him, to play and have her fun savoring their first meeting. The purple colt was unaware he could be any more disappointed, but now he knows he can. Kirin is just as unforgiving in his once-over, the blank pallet extremely unexciting. This one appears unkempt, a shabby coat sticking out in every which way. He is just as thin as the last, only souring Kirin’s mood further. If he could, he would drop both of their mothers from the highest cliff and watch them flatten against the earth. The black foal speaks nonsense, some half-wit comment about ducks. He is glad when Nicia takes over, making a witty, darling retort. Just the thing to make him smile.
”Raelynx,” he hmmphs as he says it. Well, that wasn’t an entirely dreadful name. His own has just left his sister’s mouth, though begrudgingly. She inquires gently of the silvered boy’s christening, and Kirin lifts an eggplant wing, deftly stroking his wingtip beneath the child’s chin. ”It’s okay you can tell us, I’m sorry about earlier. The Gates just make me so angry, look how they have taken care of you sweetling. Our dear, little brother.” Oh that voice, that syrupy sweet croon. Kirin was not sorry at all, far from it. He felt no guilt for his rude or harsh behavior. He could pretend though, he could always pretend.