It’s her legs that catch his attention as Trell stands and stares out at the mingling horses from under the dubious shelter of a stand of trees. The wind today is biting, and it cuts the rotting canopy right off the branches until they are stark and naked and hard, snipped bare of all their finery and exposed for everyone to see what they really are: sticks. Giant ugly crooked sticks.
He stares at her through the dark strands of his forelock. Her legs are white almost to her elbows. He appreciates the aesthetic as he imagines standing near her, his own legs dressed in black from the knee down. They’re both built for hard travel and strenuous terrain; they’d make a lovely fucking pair. He snorts lightly, breath ghosting out of his face, and ambles toward her. He makes no secret about his approach, but still the crisp snapping of leaves under his weight seems to startle her. Good. He likes it when others are on edge.
Trell helps her darting eyes find their target. "Evening," he says. Her ears curl in toward each other, close enough to kiss, and this uncommon physical attribute is the first thing he comments on to gauge both the self-worth of the mare and all the directions in which this conversation might go as he draws nearer. "You’re a pretty thing, even with those ears. Been alone long?" |