There is no help for you here, not in the way you wish you poor, poor thing. Perhaps in another life, on another day something warm and consoling would have found you here in the field, bickering against yourself. No such luck I’m afraid.

Kirin doesn’t have an inner voice to tussle with and if he did he’d be the clear winner of that fight. His mind and the wicked thoughts in it were his and his alone, just the way he liked it. His life was always just so and he was apt to keep It that way, he was apt to continue selecting and nibbling at Beqanna’s mass of women just as he always had. Even when there were none here, well, he made his own at home- go figure.

If you think the lavender stud is beautiful, you’re right, there’s no shortcoming in appearances for the ‘king’ of Silver Cove. Even the sun dare aid his trysts, lighting his lavender hued skin in brilliance as he sails over the spring touched fields. Another broken thing catches his eye like a shining metal object to a magpie though her coat is an unremarkable pitch. The silver in his soul reflects through his hazel irises and he touches the earth with a gentle kiss of hoof.

His smile only broadens as she seems to struggle with some inner demon, finding her feet in a knock-kneed gracelessness. Oh but those inner demons, they just don’t have that same pain factor and allure as the ones veiled in flesh and blood. Adorned with pastel plumes tucked to their sides, towering over men and women alike in a regal fashion and carriage.

“My, my, best take it easy.” He cooed, lacing his words thick with smoke and honey, a stout bourbon on a bitter night.

What an ungrateful little sod. The delicate mare twists like a viper in the grass, snaking her way upward to reclaim her footing. Terrible thing that she would soon learn she was a crow among eagles, at least to Kirin she was.

There was no way she could have known that her ill temper would only entice him more, would only make the game greater in the end when he stood victor. Purple, purple, purple… Was he purple? More of a lavender or a thistle if you asked him. Once he actually had been purple, long ago it seemed, back when he was a young fledgling. It seemed forever ago now and more years had passed him than his appearance let on- Kirin’s mind was much older than his body was.

“Hardly my dear,” sweet hickory littering his tenor, “not anymore anyways.” It is simple, it is truth and it is known- around here anyway. Words spread like wildfire around Beqanna and Kirin only deigned to fan the blaze he started.

Just fine,… Oh no, no, no. Almost just fine until that little pinch caught him on the shoulder. His own lilac head coiled around, placing a firm bite on her hip. No love taps, no nibbles like one would use to delicately eat away at one of those gourmet cupcakes. Kirin meant business, gnawing her flesh like a juicy red apple at its peak of ripeness. Should there be a warning shot? Hmm, no I don’t think we can spare one.

Another moment and his weight is pushed forward, hoping to knock her off balance just enough to lose her footing. “When little girls are bad they are punished aren’t they?” His anger boils within only to flash with a silver fire across his hazel eyes. Even at the height of his rage, he’s kept his tone an even, dark cup of coffee but an underlying table saw edges to the surface.

What led the woman to these circumstances is unknown. Perhaps she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she had called to him in some unknown, soundless voice. Either way he was there, she was here and the matter at hand quickly escalated.

First the parting of her flesh, a sweet scrape of skin revealing the pink beneath. Hair tearing from skin and skin parting ways to reveal muscle and life underneath. Kirin did not have a hankering for the taste of blood but he delighted in the beads of red all the same. Blood was a part of the reward, his reward, as well as the gasps and groans that usually accompanied such injury. It was these, these marks that drove him, it was their squeals that he took pleasure from. Thus he made them, again and again.

Each push, every pull was his to give- to take. Just as each cry and stumble and fall was made because he dreamed it so. With a wry smile he laughs, the mare losing her footing so easily against his shove. "When little girls are good they get to come with me." He assures her of this like it is a common fact, something that is absolute and known. Needless to say both good and bad little girls usually came with him but that was simply a detail- nothing to worry your pretty head about.

"I have just the place for the well behaved, it's called Silver Cove. I'm sure you'll like it there, everyone does." Once there they do not often leave save for when Kirin is done playing, even then there is always the chance they might become some toy for his many siblings or children. Alas, he wont be the one to explain this, that would ruin all the fun.