Common

The painted wolf is prepared to do battle. Thick muscles coil tight beneath his battle-scarred hide as the beast lingers nearer, stretching his whiskered maw towards hers with nostrils fluttering, drinking in each breath of her scent. He expects her to react as the other mare had done, expects her to scream her rage at his brash, feral behavior and launch into a vicious assault of teeth and nails. A small part of him even expects his wolf-girl or another of the mountain mares to appear from the shroud of mist settling over the snowy landscape and provide additional onslaughts of their own. Golden eyes remain fixed on the black huntress before him but always his tattered ears swivel back and forth to catch the sprung trap before their leashes are too tightly knotted around his throat.

He does not expect what she does.

The strangely exotic lilt of her voice is foreign to his ears. Golden eyes blink in confusion as she allows a breath to pass between them. And then another. Her scent is familiar, the same rich conifers and salt air but shrouded in something far more open and free than anything he has tasted. There is no sweet hibiscus or jasmine to envelop him, but wind and rain if those scents could be summoned, that is what linger on her skin. A scent that is more a part of the islands than he could ever hope to become. The allowance, the sultry murmur of her words, together they give him enough hope and bravado to take another step closer, close enough to reach out and feel her thick winter coat beneath his sensitive lips.

But that move alone seems to break whatever spell keeps her still. If it was the crunch of snow beneath his hooves or the single fearless step forward he would never know for sure. Maybe one day she would tell him. Either way, the single shared moment together is broken. Like a dragon awakening from a long slumber, the obsidian mare snakes her neck towards him. Blunt, yellow teeth clamp down upon his ashen muzzle but only long enough to proclaim her rebuke. He had overstepped. At least that is what he thinks she means by the manner in which she unfurrows herself and spins away. A rebuke it may be, but he is far from put off.

For a moment longer he remains still, caught between enjoying the sight of her outstretched wings and giving chase. She was entrancing.

The flick of her dark tail is a beckoning, a sight that sends his tattered ears backward in determination. A genuine smile curves across his ashen labrums as the stout stallion charges in her wake, his thick, saucer-like hooves tossing snow and mud with each ground-eating stride he takes.

She does not try to avoid his approach, of that he almost feels certain in the manner her head tilts to follow his movements as he closes the distance between them. Yet still does she not allow him as close as they had been moments before. She was a cunning fox, a far cry from the mice he usually toyed with.

Determination more than anything brings him close, swerving as she tilts her hip towards him to offer a half-hearted kick. ”Mine.” he growls, the sound reaffirming his previous claim. The rumble echoed between deep inhales of breath. He snakes his own head this time, bumping her hip in temptation, in threat but not quite bringing himself to marr her gloriously dark coat. Golden eyes glitter as he pivots now, thrusting himself forward to guide her quick pace toward the ocean and Tinuvel. At least there he could play with her without having to worry about anyone interrupting their game. Well, aside from Parvati. But she had made it quite clear she had her own lovers to attend and with any luck, her children keep her occupied long enough for him to unravel the glorious black huntress that danced just beyond his reach.