Rafe knows a predator when he meets one. Perhaps he didn’t notice at first - call it complacency. Here, the monsters in the dark have been few and far between. All he has been faced with so far are minor irritations, stallions who want the predictable and mares who fall in line. But there is something wild in the gaze of this mare, something less-than-sane, and he knows with a sudden striking clarity that he needs to tread carefully.
She calls Fell a shadow and Rafe cannot fight off the urge to roll his eyes, letting out an annoyed little snort. So Fell is self-important too, allowing a silly nickname such as that. “He’s as flesh and blood as we are,” Rafe disagrees with the mare, eyes narrowed as he untangles her words, sifts through the heavy weight of them and the strange accent that smooths it over, slurs her vowels together into something foreign and near-heady. He’s never been able to stand monikers - half the battle is already won if you can willingly have your enemies referring to you in a way that elevates you. He refuses to put Fell on a pedestal; he will call him what he is - an annoyance, although apparently an efficient one.
Rafe cocks his head in interest when she says he isn’t common, wondering just what else she knows of Fell. As far as Rafe can see, all he is is common. He sees a pretty mare that he wants, and he tries to take her. There’s nothing earth-shattering about that. A common pest. The usual sort of riff-raff herd leaders expect to tolerate. But why should they have to? There are more of them than there are of Fell. You teach what you allow; if enough of them stand together and squash him, crush his efforts and destroy his spirit then the next to rise up will have a larger hurdle to cross. Eventually, with a firm enough hand on the islands they won’t have to deal with roving nuisances such as him. Not in their herds, at least.
Her next words have him more interested, ears perking forward. She must be quick, and formidable at that, because Fell is no small enemy. She slinks in closer, her body coiled and deadly, and Rafe has a split second to decide what to do. Her gaze drops to the soft catch of his throat as she creeps in, and so Rafe lifts his head, exposing the soft underside of his chin to her gaze. “Then it seems,” he murmurs, voice showing no sign of nerves around the vulnerability he has just offered, “That I came to the right woman.”
She dismisses him, but Rafe has never been one to give up easily. “Well,” he drawls out, “I’m sure there’s time for other pursuits.” The implication in his tone is clear. Perhaps it is too bold of him to come to her home, demand to discuss an alliance and then flirt with her, so close to Fall, but Rafe has never done things by halves. He looks over her, appreciative - she is pretty, and he's always enjoyed a woman who knows her own strength. He takes a half step forward, unwilling to let her slip away so soon.
When she deigns to let him follow her, Rafe flicks his tail in satisfaction, amused that this won’t result in failure so quickly. “Charybdis,” he echoes, the name tasting strange on his tongue. “I’m Rafe - of the Badlands.” He can’t capture the way her accent sounds around it, but doesn’t let it worry him overmuch. Her question gives him pause, because he’s never really thought it over. The ocean looks like the ocean; it is the same everywhere, is it not? But he doubts that is what she wants. ‘Blue’ also probably won’t suffice. Rafe feels a pressing urge to go to force these talks along and demand a straight answer - but he won’t. It won’t get him anything but an irritated mare and one less possibility for assistance against Fell.
“The ocean looks like a lie,” he finally murmurs. “Water, as far as you can see - and not a drop you can drink. It looks like hope, and tastes only of disappointment. A pretty little deception, isn’t it? Much like I imagine you are.” He follows her to a small grove, uncomfortable under the lush green trees after so many years of nothing but open sky above him. “You know what I want - I want to stop Fell. Reasoning with him won’t work, given that he won’t speak back. Dismissing him didn’t work. Violence didn’t work. What remains, then, is this.” Rafe curls a lip then, and his tone drips with distaste when he finishes, “Diplomacy.”