She had never taken to anything so naturally as taking to motherhood. When mares were busy brawling it out with stallions to make a ‘new world’, she found herself wondering ‘why the heck bother?’. She didn’t need anything more than seeing a child of hers playing as Vulcan did, or even her eldest as he fought his father and later killed him, to know that she had all the power in the world. She didn’t need to be the hooves to crush an enemy to be powerful. She raised the future of any place she lived simply by bearing the affections of the appropriate stallion in her belly and making sure it survived.
But that wasn’t to say that she wasn’t also given a body made firm by the wild or a breeding of genetics that predisposed her to feel a compulsion and capability to defend her child on her own when it was called for.
Her slightly too-quick trot to her boy does seem to bring the big bloke to a stop. At least, she thinks, she had not somehow trespassed and brought a righteous fury down on both their heads. Her darkened amber eyes regard him mistrustingly, but it is now tinged with less horror from her distance from her son and it makes her look a little less ready to make a fuss than she had looked a moment ago.
"I meant no harm toward your son. My name is Cain. It's refreshing to watch a colt so full of life and I was caught up in the moment. I apologize for my intrusion." He does not leave them, though, and so she regards him properly - no longer entirely tensed against a stranger. She heard something in his voice, she will think later on. Some sort of distress or sorrow. Mother’s Intuition.
"But a boy should always keep his head enough to remain close to his mother, I think." she mentions in a temperate tone that was tinged in her obvious curiosity. Most stallions didn’t much care for a lady with a child unless they could feasibly start the next one off, in her experience. "What makes a man such as yourself seem so bewitched with a child’s playing?" She almost doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to know, in case a child of his was no longer of the world and instead racing other foals stillborn and murdered in the star fields.
Her opinion of him isn’t necessarily changed at the core, he is still male and still capable of ill will or bad temper, but the sorrow calls to her own over her son’s father. The feathered feet swishing against grass makes her heart clench just slightly. Her dark mane catches the breeze that brings his scent to her - the scent mostly of male and sand, if faintly of ‘others’ in the mix. Not a rogue then. "I am Berit, and my boy is Vulcan. What do I call you?"