The spring grass here is decidedly lacking in salt, and though it is strange to not feel parched after a meal, it is a good sort of strange. I still wander toward the water by habit, and take a few short swallows. It is too cold for more than that, and I watch a few bits of ice from the Hyalinian snow melt travel further downstream.
When they are out of sight, my amethyst gaze catches on the nearest bit of motion. It is a stallion, and his black hide is accentuated by the purple bone that rests atop it. I have never seen anything quite like him, and I am intrigued. Holding my long-haired tail high to avoid getting it wet, I wade across the shallow stream. My fetlocks are just starting to lose their numbness as I arrive in front of the stranger.
“Hello!” I say brightly, having found that the leniency often granted to children is granted (albeit far differently) to pretty young mares. “I like your bones,” I tell him, “Purple is my favorite color.” It is the color of my own skin, after all, of the violets that climb my hindlegs and the amethyst ends of my three-pronged antlers. Now that I am nearer, his discomfort has become more noticeable. Or is it discomfort at me, I wonder? I have never discomforted anyone before, but the possibility remains a common worry for my adolescent heart.
“My name is Asena,” I offer, with an inflection to suggest that I would like to know his name as well.
@[Grimjaw]
A S E N A
will I remember to put a quote here before i post?
probably not