THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN
He is almost unmoved as he hears the entrance of another body. Figures, silence is a virtue in the land of gossip and drama. Lazily, he cocks his hind right hoof in a cocked position to become more comfortable, to settle in while he still could. Depending on the company, he may not be here for long.
Slowly he turns his head to see the ebony mare stop at a respectful distance, enough that he could almost nod in approval at her diplomacy. She had either been raised well and most likely by someone who understood the respectful way to interact with new acquaintances, or she had played the diplomatic role before.
Or--because Dalten does love his plot twists as he fantasizes more reasons for her behaviour--she had been taught the lesson the hard way.
Her voice is soft (as most females are), and he lets it linger in the air for a moment while he finds the will to respond. It had been so long since he had amicable exchange of words, and the pause hangs as if he had almost forgotten how to proceed. A small blip in perfection, but Dalten had never worried about meeting anyone else’s standards anyways.
Not until her, and to hell if it would happen again.
“Pleasure,” his voice baritone and gruff and clearly underused as he uncomfortably shakes his neck, ridding of his nerves. “Dalten.”
Two words, and the silence swallows them once more. Leaving him to decipher his own thoughts, with the murmur of flowing water slowly filling up the space. It felt nice to sit here and appreciate the nature.
“Do you have a favourite place?” He asks, peering back at her only long enough to notice the flaring red marking painted down her face.
