Meadow

Bacardi had not been expecting a duet, but he does not mind the company. So when it is over, and he had soaked in the peaceful silence, he turns his head to peer at the equine. They are different in such a way, the young stallion cannot even describe. The scent that lingers in the air from their intertwining patterns is neither mare nor stallion. Just as their features do not lead him to believe one, or the other. It leaves him briefly confused, but undaunted to their presence.

“You do not laugh at a stallion dancing in the snow?” he says in a way of greeting, turning so that his body is facing them directly. Given his typically friendly nature, the young stallion offers them a smile, another rarity among the masculine sex. But unlike with Havelle and Nerys, Bacardi does not feel a heat rise to his cheeks as he takes in the stranger’s appearance. He blames it on the lack of knowledge on what they were, because the painted grullo was not displeasing in any way as he looked at them.

“My name is Bacardi. Son of the Peak.” he offered, hoping it to be the olive branch between them.

two years. mutt. bay tobiano. fourteen three hands. of the peak.

"...speech"