:WYRM:
Surprising, how easily the dip of his head comes when she reaches across to close the distance between them. So gentle and unexpected. The caress of her nose against the last remaining hint of green that dyes his forehead seeps through his skin to erase that bitter ache of cold that soon returns once Luster draws away again. “Easier to trust because I’m like her?...” He reasons, “Or because she has no choice?” Indeed, with the quick turn of his eye he can see that they are eerily alone here. There’s only the inviting, untouched surface of snow to cushion their voices and wipe the slate of the earth clean. The snow, and then of course the two of them, oddities brought together by circumstance alone.
She’s talking, the spotted one, so his (or, should we say her?) eyes return to where the light sound plunges from her lips, falling stars, each one, to speckle the muffled air around them with noise. The pony mare can hardly resist such urgency, nor the girl’s innocent desire for company, especially when those comely lips are imprinting a smile into the curve of her marbled grey neck, so she only chirps “Then I suppose it doesn’t matter where we go, hmm?” before complacently following in the newly-minted tracks Luster leaves behind her.
It would be hard, of course, for anyone to miss the torn skin (now healed) that mars the otherwise faultless hide she wears. Harder even still to overlook the daunting fear that grips his new compatriot in the sharp hollows of her steely blue face. To see it there, resting in its horrible, twisted black form is almost too much for him to bear, like an oenophiliac detecting whiffs of a particularly desirable aroma. He wants a taste for himself, mulls over the idea while he lingers near enough to her that his mouth drifts, and then hovers, over her croup for perhaps a moment too long.
No. No.
Not yet at least.
His tongue pushes itself outward to part his ashen lips, rolling shakily over tooth and gum before swallowing that familiar urge. A lengthening of his short, rather choppy stride and then he is parallel with her, the bulbous, fleshy curves of silver-white shoulders, ribs and hips bumping casually against Luster’s own sinewy form occasionally as they ramble. “I have an idea,” Not-wyrm says airily, a cheeky smile brandishing the grey’s face to warm the chilly atmosphere, “something to keep your mind busy, and me chuckling, while we walk.” The little mare offers. “Something to keep me preoccupied.” He thinks. “Why don’t you try and guess my name? I’ll give you three tries.”
His inky black hooves pop prettily from the snow as he trots lightly forward, the thin crust of snowfall giving way easily beneath him as each stride strikes downward again. He puts only a few meters between them before stopping again, leaning under the weight of freshly-shaped muscles before he circles once for effect. “What do you think?” He queries, surprised to find that his own interest is piqued for her answers. “Am I a ‘cinder’, or more of a ‘sterling’ sort of gal?”