12-07-2015, 09:37 AM
Moss has gone back to the old original ways; her communication is nonverbal though if she dug deep enough, she could scrounge up words and say them aloud. She was raised on the meat of language but it was the hot simmering broth of silence in between all the words that she preferred.
She waits; he has said nothing yet but she does not think him mute, merely archaic - he was a throwback to a time before talk came to their mouths, and she supposed he was much like her - given to the old ways of throaty vocalizations and subtle telling nuances of flesh and look.
His red maw touches her own gray one in gentle nudging acknowledgment and she breathes deep of his scent, the particular musk that is his alone - woodsy and wandering. He neighs, whirls fast on his legs and rises into a half rear and pushes against her neck; Moss retaliates by skimming her teeth along his crest in a shared grooming motion before nipping lightly at his shoulder. She feels his teeth go to work on her withers and her own lift from the slope of his shoulder back up to his withers where she works on his fur, sometimes grabbing a hank of two-tine mane and tugging playfully.
Moss leans into his side, eerily comfortable, and her head comes to rest in the sway of his back as if it was always meant to. She whuffs into his back, content to stay that way for as long as she can, unable to remember the last time she shared the company of another. Every glance, every whicker between them, every touch was an indulgence she allowed herself thinking it couldn't possibly end.