If Marceline is to prove to her sisters that she is fit to be their Prime Minister, she will have to do more than make pretty promises and spin them tales about what could be. Words are only as strong as the actions that back them up, and with this in mind Marceline takes initiative to visit the Commons one late summer day.
The sun warms her back pleasantly as she grazes at the edge of the clearing. She is distracted, though, eyes flicking to and fro over the expansive no man's land before her. She is on the lookout today - with autumn rapidly approaching, there will surely be more stallions skulking about searching for the opportunity to lay claim. If she can stop even one of them it will help make a point that the Peak is always there, waiting and willing to stop anyone who would snatch away the freedom of unsuspecting mares.
Marceline turns away from stallions who approach politely, keeping a keen eye out for those whose movements speak to an aggressive, take-what-I-want nature. Her attention is caught briefly by a young painted stallion loping by. At first it seems he has no destination in mind, wandering aimlessly through the meadow. She is about to cast her gaze elsewhere when she notices he has changed course and now walks with purpose towards - no, not her... she follows his gaze towards a young grulla mare grazing under a patch of shade nearby.
The former queen does her best to appear disinterested as he approaches the smoke-and-ivory mare, waiting to see how it plays out. But every bit of her is on alert. Slowly she approaches, ready to intervene if necessary. She attempts to remain inconspicuous as she inches closer and closer. But then she hears the hiss of his words, and Marceline's anger flares to life inside her breast. It burns in her veins as she watches his lips peel back, teeth scraping a claiming mark over the flesh of the mare's shoulder.
Unable to hold back, Marceline drives herself forward to intercept, ears pinned back and muscles coiled. She does not attempt to physically insert herself between the two, but comes at him wielding a sharp tongue ready to slice through any arguments he may have against her.
"I think she'll be staying right where she is," Marceline interrupts bluntly, a disapproving leer painted upon her pretty face. She draws in a quiet breath to find that he reeks of damp, decaying earth and brackish water. A lagoon hooligan. Isik had worn the same scent upon him when he'd first arrived in the Hills, but she feels much less inclined to get close to this one. His scent nearly makes her nose curl, but she keeps her expression schooled and stares challengingly into the face of the would-be captor. "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude not to ask a lady before you go touching her?" |