Common

It is flattering to feel the weight of the girl's admiration on his face, and it gives him hope in the face of Cain's goodness. Solomon cannot imagine falling for someone as incessantly and earnestly good as Cain appeared to be, if only because there seemed to be hardly any excitement to it. As much as Solomon might try to delude himself otherwise on the days where stress piled on his shoulders, he would never be the type of stallion content to lead a herd in which nothing exciting happened. If the greatest excitement in his day came down to whether or not it rained, it would be time for him to retire and ask for the same sweet oblivion that Warsaw had sought. Of course, he didn't know if that was what life was like in the Desert. His time there had been exceedingly short and plagued with his frustration over not being able to seduce Feray away from Roheryn.

Again the painted girl plays between them, revealing herself to be far less unsure than she had been at the start of their conversation. It may not be a game that she had played often, but he could see the natural way she picked up the strands of competition and tugged, determined to set stallion against stallion. Deftly she sets the terms of the competition and names herself as the prize, her green eyes glittering as she looks toward Solomon mid-sentence. It gives him hope, but in truth, it isn't much. Cain had made himself out to be a knight in shining monochrome armor, here only to offer her support and protection while she found her way in this big, scary world.

Solomon didn't really buy it, but then again, his time with the painted stallion was limited. In Solomon's experience, even the "best" stallions had flaws. Jealousy problems, repressed anger, dark and dirty pasts. Pick your flavor of subtext. Some of them were just more zealous about hiding it. Hell, even little Roheryn had proven himself to be neglectful and absent in his duties in the past, and jealous over even the most minor flirtation with his queen.

Granted, Solomon had been attempting to steal her away at that point, but that was hardly the point.

Convince me, she says, and his lips curl back into that same wolfish smile. Before he can answer, however, Cain surges in on another tide of words. Solomon turns to him this time, patiently listening, even as he presses a grin between his lips and does his best to hide it. The lean tobiano has always been a purveyor of the language of touch. He has learned to make his way through this land of spoken words well enough, but if given half a chance he would gladly resort to detangling the salt-encrusted strands of her mane with his lips and soothing away her nerves with tender touches down the proud bow of her neck.

Cain, however, is seemingly the opposite. Solomon listens as he spills another life story's worth of information upon them both, although he can't help the way his gaze drifts back to Chelle with an appreciative smile. Absently, he lets his gaze do what his lips cannot, and he studies the elegant way her neck curls upward, so slender and girlish. He follows the path of her sloped shoulder to the hollow of her chest, where he imagines - vividly - that he could probably feel her heartbeat if he pressed his lips. From there, he admires the girlish sweep of her belly, clearly not yet altered by the carrying of children; then, to the swell of her haunches and the proud set of her red-gold tail.

Led me down a dark path, Cain claims and Sol does his best not to allow his brow to quick upward in disbelief. Either Cain's past was far darker than he was painting it, or it was hardly dark at all. Looking at him, it was hard to tell which it was, although the feathered stallion had more than a few scars on his coat, indicating that he had not always been the marshmallow he portrayed himself as now. As the monochrome tobiano continued on, painting a masterfully idyllic portrait of the Desert, Solomon couldn't help but wonder if his chance was slipping away. Was such a life really what a woman wanted? Or would she see like he did, as something far too good to be realistic?

"Well that's settled then, isn't it?" He says cheekily as Cain lapses into silence, his green gaze glittering with amusement and confidence as he focuses back on her. "You'll come home with me, and if you find me too unsuitable," his gaze darkens, and for all intents and purposes, smolders with hidden meaning. "Then you have Cain in your back pocket to come to your rescue."

He chuckles, knowing that as much as he would like for his bravado and confidence to work, that he would need to hedge his bets against Cain. As much as Solomon would find the quiet country life he described abysmally boring, he also didn't have the mind of a mare, and knew that it was possible that she was looking for precisely that. He couldn't promise she would find such a democratic experience in the Cove, but he also knew that she would fit in beautifully… and that he would thoroughly enjoy having her there.

"Honestly, what am I supposed to say in response to that?" Shaking his head with a smile, he tipped his head briefly to Cain before turning back to Chelle. "The Cove is beautiful but cold. The herd is large, but well protected and surrounded by an island full of allies to keep you safe. You are welcome not to choose me, obviously," again the lopsided grin resurfaces before he finishes up. "But I cannot promise that I won't get attached if you do come with me."

Banking on the fact that his boldness will continue to win him points over Cain's self-effacing niceties, Solomon does not drop his gaze from hers while he waits for an answer. He knows already that he cannot let this feeling - whatever this nameless, curious, desire to know more about her can be called - go, and that regardless of her decision today - for the Cove, or the Desert, or for pointless homelessness, he will not let her go. Not yet.

Solomon