Her companion with the delightful accent is the first to join her in the waves, trotting nearly at her heels, and she splashes at him playfully with one hoof before glancing up the beach to see where the darker stallion is. He approaches the water with what appears to be reluctance and stops before the tide can do more than kiss his feathered ankles. Shararat herself backs up two sloshing steps so that the water laps at her knees— and it’s cold, delightfully so. She grins at the shadowy male as he looks at her and asks about home, then drops her gaze to the pale pony in the ocean.
"Yes, where do you come from? I reckon it’s a muckle more distant than these islands." Her grin cracks a little wider as she drops the new word, and she ducks her head once she’s finished speaking in an effort to hide her mirth. Her belly feels full of helpless fluttering; muckle. She loves it, and she throws her head up suddenly to laugh unabashedly. "Did I use that right?" she asks the shaggy-haired male, her dark eyes merry.
Sobering —but only a little— Shararat offers her own answer to the stallion’s question, and makes more of an effort to pitch her voice above the waves. "I grew up in Paradise," she says, and holds the tip of her tongue between her teeth for a moment to still a sudden nervous bubbling of more laughter. She’s tickled by the irony but disinterested in discussing, too deeply, her childhood. "My name’s Shararat. What can I call the two of you— Sun and Moon?" Her easy smile’s back, a spark in her eyes as she teases the two. |