Falls

She struggles not to compare him to Ironclad and Bjorn. Bjorn was so steeped in mystery and lore that it had felt as though she and he could never have meshed into one grand story. He was too much like ice to meet the sunbeams of her light without one stifling the other. Ironclad, on the other hand, was too much like stone. Not stone of the heart, but of his very nature. He was cold, but when he warmed, he warmed up so as to scald - never quite making it to fire. He would have been comfortable for a day, for even a year or two, but eventually he would find the sunshine of her presence lessened in comfort.

Kamekaze was not like either of the men she had met. The blazing intent of leading their world was not a part of him. His interest was likened in her mind to the way the sun could warm you by surprise in early spring or late fall. You do not intend to feel warm in the chill and crisp coldness, but then for a moment you feel hot and you wonder what on earth might make you feel so.

She writes it off as her season speaking nonsense to her. She pushes her thoughts off and dismisses the allure of his nonchalance. She does note his gaze on her, though he is more subtle than Ironclad and yet more athirst than Bjorn had seemed. She offers him the same respectful appreciation, the lines of the snow-marks of his own coat so bewitchingly clean and sloping over muscles softened by comfort and a lack of constant warring with others.

His offered breath in exchange for hers gives her an excuse to indulge in a little of her idle girlishness, letting (read: encouraging) a slight brush of their whiskers as they pulled back to their respective distances. He did indeed smelled of some kind of spice, some plant that she imagined grew in the badlands and made the air smell rich of it in the right valley or canyon. It makes her fix her cocked hoof down properly into the earth, realizing the depth of her appreciation of such a minor thing. Her tail flicks in minor self-chastisement, but she regales him of the prophetic commentary the Oracle had left for her future.

"I wonder what it means...man of fire. Is he passionate? Does it refer to his territory? Has he been burned in the past, either emotionally or physically?" It was true. She often dwelt long and hard on the description she was given. Metpahorical? Literal? On the nose? Vague? The whole thing was a confusing state of affairs. And what if she chose the wrong one? Picked poorly and floundered fate’s design for her? "She said only Man of Fire. But what fire? How fire? I know only that the earth will sing for me when I have found the right demesne. I know only that I will serve this Man of Fire as Chalice," she looks to him, tilted head a sign of her offered aside, "I gave up my birth name when I dedicated myself to the position my color prophesied I was born to hold for my people."

"Do you have any other clues? I love a good mystery. If you need an escort while you search for him, I wouldn't mind. Got nothing better to do. Of course. I would love to show you the golden sands of Salem. Whenever you want to go, I'll lead the way."

"Not a thing that would give any hint or clue to near my supposed fate. Only what I have said. If you would be my guardian for this quest for my Man of Fire, I would welcome such assistance and company. Are you needed desperately by your Badlands, or shall a sabbatical be easily approved by your King?"