Eager anticipation quickly falls to disappointment. Vodnik didn't need the words to confirm his hopes are false. All he needs in the uncomfortable silence that precedes it, and the uncertain expression on the draft mare's face. She isn't here to surrender herself to the Ridge today.

This in itself comes as no surprise to Vodnik. Never has a mare he truly admired ever willingly gave herself to him. This might hurt Vodnik's self esteem, if an acquired calloused arrogance and countless willing mares weren't there to counteract any potential feelings of self pity. He has come to a calm acceptance of the fact that the mares that capture his attention and stir his desires are those that don't throw themselves at the hooves of any stallion. They are better than that, and he's just smart enough to see it.

What does surprise Vodnik, however, is his own reaction to such. There is no urge to snake out his neck and drive her home. Urges he fought to suppress in the face of Macabre are thankfully absent now. Vodnik can't smooth the flirtations arch out of his neck, or extinguish the flame of interest in his dark eyes, but he can let go of the anxious tension that gripped his body moments before. His ears find their way out of his thick mane and flip forward in a pleasantly conversational way.

"I'm sorry, love, but I don't know any Nuru." Vodnik raises a brow, wondering who this Nuru is, and if he might mean competition. "But you found me. It's nice to see you again." He's not lying when he says it. The strength in this mare is a thrill to behold. "I don't think I caught your name before. I'm Vodnik."

This is quite possibly the most talking Vodnik has ever done. The words don't roll off his tongue like the typical smooth talker. His voice is low and rough, like rumble of distant thunder. There are tones so low they're felt more than they're heard.