He was a king, then. The stallion wore the title well; she might have guessed it if he hadn't been forthcoming with the information (no doubt a result of the other stallion's presence). As soon as Solomon spoke his title she dipped her crown, this time in reverence instead of greeting. In her home the monarchy was a sacred thing, so of course here she would continue to treat the title with care. But quickly her mind wandered back to her friend. Nas had surely been crowned by now despite her absence.
She wasn't sure she could just trade one king for another. So as he described the Peak, she perked up ever so slightly, considering. A band of mares didn't sound so bad, strange a concept as it may be. But this option too tugged at her heart ever so slightly, the sheer amount of change making panic rise from her belly to her throat. Though Solomon--King Solomon--hadn't said it in so many words, she knew the dance enough to assume she had a place in his court should she follow him back out into the storm. But could she? Could she wash up on this beach and walk right into another monarchy for more of the same, same, same?
The golden mare despite her political and physical training, had always chosen comfort. She had hidden behind Nas for her whole young life, a cog in the machine that was their well-run kingdom. She certainly didn't regret it, but if the tides had literally turned on her, why not let them?
As her brain turned over and over, he asked for her questions. But instead, her response: "You're a kind man, Solomon." Not you seem kind or a question that begged he prove it. She could tell by his disposition, his kind words, and the fact that he hadn't herded her away against her will yet. She smiled softly at him, then at the raging wind behind him that he chivalrously blocked. A good, kind man. "I hope that if we do not leave this place together, we can still be friends."
The mare meant it, and hoped her sincerity bled through her tone. Whether it was a result of her political savvy or simple goodheartedness, the gilded femme resisted burning bridges whenever she could, and always followed through with a promise of friendship to those who were deserving of it. Carpathia may have not been the strongest in her year, but she her conduct and sincerity were beyond reproach.
Her gaze wanders to her second painted courtier, a man of fewer words than the king. There is something about his earnestness she finds endearing; he is quiet, but did not hesitate in challenging the stallion who happened upon her first. Beyond that, he is an unknown, and the thought of something completely new settles the feeling in her stomach ever so slightly. She looks him over briefly then allows herself to meet his eyes in a silent plea, a reminder: you haven't asked.