r h a e l l a


Had Rhaella been borne of another culture, she might have lashed out at him then, physically or verbally: for what she had unleashed thus far was little more than a bark was in comparison to a bite. She might even have turned away to give him the cold shoulder, or to flee back across the dark ocean from whence she had come. But Rhaella was Rhaella: she was from a land where violence was grounds for exile, and even arguments were frowned upon as social faux-pas. So while she could feel something dangerous seething within her, a fraction of Rhaella's brain knew just how to extinguish the tension.

”Touch me,” she commanded, her jaw set and stubborn, green fire dancing in her eyes. There was nothing suggestive in her tone. In her eyes, and in her family's eyes, the surest way to eliminate any superstitious suspicions was to prove that the equine in question had a physical body that could touch and be touched, and that extended to resolving arguments as well (for there was nothing so trust-inducing as physical contact).

She stood and waited, nothing in her stern demeanor giving away exactly what she expected the stallion to do, though she held a perfectly clear idea in mind.

(sorry it's so short and blah.)



mare : 3 : sooty flaxen chestnut sabino (ref) : saddlebred mix : 15hh
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