This pretty, pale mare is awfully polite; it’s a stark contrast to his other encounters in the Commons. His first had been with someone on edge, instantly on the defensive and Rafe returned the energy, herding her back without a single moment to question the choice. His second encounter had been far more laid back, more curiosity about the roan the ocean had coughed up and deposited half-dead on the shore. This one is shaping up to be amicable, though, and Rafe is happy to continue such a positive tone as long as the mare before him stays agreeable.
She seems a little naive, tipping her ears forward and readily agreeing with him that she’s lucky. Rafe snorts in amusement, because he’d expected some sort of resistance to that; instead, she’s laughing and agreeing. “It might be too soon to call it lucky,” Rafe responds. “Usually the most I hope for is tolerable.” Is that the right word for an interaction that doesn’t leave the mare raging? Perhaps he does still have a hint of the charm his mother tried to instill in him left. He’d heard enough complaints about his fathers tendency to insert his hoof in his mouth every time he spoke that Rafe always strove to be better, but quite honestly the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Almost as frequently as he finds pretty, charming words slipping from his mouth he looses some snarky and insensitive little jibe and walks all of his progress back. “It’s my pleasure,” Rafe returns without hesitation, his usual bored, drawling tone a little more clipped and sincere. It really is; better him here than some other stallion who would snap her up just as fast. He’s hardly the best option, but Rafe also assumes that there must be worse herds for her to end up in.
She offers her name without any need for him to ask, and it’s a pleasant change; normally, a bit more effort is needed before he gets that out of someone. “I’m Rafe,” he offers in return, hesitating on how to further introduce himself. Salem and the Badlands don’t feel enough like home to claim them as his yet, but the alternative, of opening up the festering wound that is dwelling on his exile. “Of the Badlands,” he finally adds. He grins at her, then, and rather casually asks, “Have you spent much time on Salem? We’re blessed with a more mild winter, there.”