what we do in life echoes in eternity.
The Gladiator is at home within the shifting sands, the grit that spins around his feet. It sets in his teeth as well. He has a bad habit of grinding them, like a human boy who would sit and chew his nails. His eyes set upon the mares before him, and he’s ready to make an exit if a scuffle should break out. Fighting between women would be only a flame he’d try to blow out. Sometimes it was just adding oxygen to a fire, and with it, it would grow. Conflict between those that were supposed to be friendly was never his forte. Then again, supposed friendliness was never set in stone.
El Aran speaks in her turn, as does the strange intruder. He doesn’t know what to make of it, so he allows it to go on. The Gladiator’s head lowers to lip at some of the sparse grass, finding it more something to do as opposed to a real hunger. His eyes are soft on the pair of mares, but he’s backed up some. They need their space, and he’ll let it be. The stout creature watches with interest, but he still doesn’t know what to make of the situation.
He doesn’t have any words for El Aran now, so his eyes rest on the painted mare. The words that come are low and even, even gentle. “And what is it you looked for, on that island?” The man’s ears pitch forward, eyes resting on her face. There’s nowhere else for them to settle, though he does his best to make sure the lady of the Desert knows he’s still watching in his periphery. It would be poorly advised to let El Aran out of his sight while he’s still around, within an easy striking distance. He trusts the lady’s love for the land, being well aware that it does the opposite of translate to those that are new to it.
THE GLADIATOR
stallion. ten. black. andalusian. |