These women were such curious things. With their soft tongues and swaying curves, they knew how to tap the very primal language in which to entrap a man. To steal what remain at it's purest stage.
She, though, seems to still beneath the crisp caress of autumn air with her tapered snout jutted towards him challengingly...or is it curiously? A pewter eye glances towards her more delicate form from beneath the thatch of a long since matted mane. Ears click forward within the mangle of mane as she speaks with a flint voice and matchstick tongue. "...who you are?" The words are flat and almost mechanical as he echoes them. Heavy hind end moves so he may rotate his position to fully take in the shape of this woman.
She is buckskin, radiant with her dark hair and flashing eyes. But Lior is accustomed to a pretty face. He makes no effort to apologize. She is but a mare, flesh and blood, driven to the earth like all of those that surrounded them. He is unsure if he desires to continue the conversation as Nayl's rejection still troubled his sleep and he is certain another pretty face could not soothe the fever that burned his brow.
They never seemed to want anything more than for him to trail them like a rabid mutt who had gone mad for a bitch in heat. But that is neither here nor there. Perhaps a little light conversation would be beneficial for the quiet man.
"Then since you have suggested the topic, who are you?" He asks with both mercury irises catching her feminine form. Lior's words flow low and cool like glacier waters from the tip of his tongue as he observes her patiently with the idle flick of his burr ridden tail.
She, though, seems to still beneath the crisp caress of autumn air with her tapered snout jutted towards him challengingly...or is it curiously? A pewter eye glances towards her more delicate form from beneath the thatch of a long since matted mane. Ears click forward within the mangle of mane as she speaks with a flint voice and matchstick tongue. "...who you are?" The words are flat and almost mechanical as he echoes them. Heavy hind end moves so he may rotate his position to fully take in the shape of this woman.
She is buckskin, radiant with her dark hair and flashing eyes. But Lior is accustomed to a pretty face. He makes no effort to apologize. She is but a mare, flesh and blood, driven to the earth like all of those that surrounded them. He is unsure if he desires to continue the conversation as Nayl's rejection still troubled his sleep and he is certain another pretty face could not soothe the fever that burned his brow.
They never seemed to want anything more than for him to trail them like a rabid mutt who had gone mad for a bitch in heat. But that is neither here nor there. Perhaps a little light conversation would be beneficial for the quiet man.
"Then since you have suggested the topic, who are you?" He asks with both mercury irises catching her feminine form. Lior's words flow low and cool like glacier waters from the tip of his tongue as he observes her patiently with the idle flick of his burr ridden tail.