Given that she did not pin her ears or show any sign of aggression to his approach, Nephilim’s steps didn’t falter. His gold eyes watched her carefully as he neared. Her coat was unique, in its own way, the white markings such a striking difference from the sleek black of the rest of her body. Those eyes, too, were so boldly blue that he couldn’t help but find his attention drawn to them. Nephilim might approach any mare, but he was a young stallion and it was, more often than not, the pretty ones that drew him near.
As he came close his nostrils flared, drinking in her feminine perfume. He wanted to bow his muzzle to his chest and arch his neck; he wanted to prance lightly, snap his tail at his hindquarters; he wanted to crowd her, force her to pay attention to him. By now he’d had practice in dealing with his instinctual demands and was able to curb them so he didn’t rush her.
He considered what he could say to her. Nephilim wasn’t the sort to play in sweet charms or to linger with the veil of what the truth was laying between them for some time. Maybe he was too impatient, maybe he didn’t have the smoothness that naturally charismatic sorts possessed… whatever it was, he always found that he momentarily faltered when it came to this moment. “Hey,” was always a pretty solid starter. “The name’s Nephilim. Yours?” It sounded a bit egotistical, cocky, as though she owed him her name. In reality, he knew she didn’t, but he didn’t bite back what he said at the risk of looking like an idiot who couldn’t sort out what he wanted to say.
(( image by livewild4ever ))
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