NYMERIA
7; russian heavy draft x orlov trotter; dapple grey; 16hh; shiva
The buckskin mare emits another strange sound, another of what Nymeria can only assume is a word from another language, but seems to mentally and verbally check herself for it. Thankfully, her posture is unassuming and non-threatening, so Nymeria stretches out her neck to offer her nose just as she speaks again, this time in a language understood by both of them. The dapple grey mare pulls her head back to stand at attention and regard the stranger; she says nothing, feeling no particular need to make her greeting verbal, but at least offers the smallest of nods in acknowledgement.
She had hoped that the mare, possibly being foreign, might happen to come from a culture similar to her own. Perhaps not. She feels disappointment deflate her.
Nymeria is the first to spot him. Strolling casually from a break in the trees off to the left, the red stallion approaches them with the sun at his back. Immediately, she pins her ears against her crest and takes two steps backwards, splashing with her hind legs into the surf. She holds her head low in a defensive manner while the stallion greets the buckskin. His gentle touch on the mare's hide tells of familiarity, and after flaring her nostrils to test the air, Nymeria notices that the mare does not stink of a heat cycle as she does herself. They must have already bred, she deduces, which doesn't make sense to her given the fact the mare seemed to have only just arrived.
Alas, there is time yet for her to discover these things.
She continues to eye the male, looking him over thoroughly enough to notice things she had not previously. He is shorter than either of the two stallions who had formerly called her their own recently - he is shorter than both mares here, in fact - and so he should be less impressive technically. But there is something in the way he carries himself that strikes a chord of attraction within her. Perhaps it is how starkly different he is from Rurisk: they are literally opposites, after all, with one bearing spots and the other stripes. Or perhaps she is merely a puppet of her biology. Whatever it is, Nymeria dislikes herself for it. Still she knows nothing about him, particularly whether or not he is a child-killer. How he behaves around her daughters in the next few days will be telling.
Right now, though, she is in no mood to tolerate his presence, having put up with it all the previous night. She jerks her head up, suddenly realizing the mare had spoken to her, and snorts. In a low, gutteral accent, without removing the stallion from her sight, she replies, "Later, perhaps." Then, abruptly, she whirls in a flurry of silver hair and retreats into the trees to rejoin her daughters.
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