Vodnik doesn't see the her lips, parted in surprise. The darkness hides her moment of weakness. All he sees is a mare, slight in comparison to himself, yet not undesirable by any means. She lifts her chin, and in the stray tendrils of moonlight filtering through the trees above, Vonik can see a cool confidence reflected in her eyes. A grin then graces his lips.

He has found his type. The dragon in the pit of Vodnik's stomach stirs with each attractive, self-aware, confident mare he sees. His tastes have refined past breeding ability, and he's become more selective. If he's going to raise the offspring he has from now on, and let his identity as their sire be known, then he must choose worthy mares. His children will be as much, if not more, intelligent, ambitious, and physically able as their father before them. Vodnik's legacy shall carry on forever. This will be his immortality.

The awakening desire in his loins is, however, halted by the words the mare speaks. Vodnik's ears flicker in surprise. She is talking, but the guttural language she speaks is foreign to him. "I don't understand you." he grunts. If she understands him, then perhaps they can converse, otherwise, he intends to communicate as his mute father did before him. There is a primal language that all horses understand, and Vodnik is fluent in it.