For Antares, there was no guilt that could shackle him, for he was the very breath of Sekhmet sent to ride across even the temperate lands of his desert-shunning kin. He could not let guilt or regret or want or need to burden him. He had left a life destined to give him only that and he did not deign to return to it amidst a foreign people. He is younger than the painted mare, though he is her equal in height, when he came across her in a too-green land he had gone off to explore for the sake of his brothers and he finding the birthplace of their future First Wives. It would have been their father’s duty once, to be sure that each son had at least their first to bear him a son.
Antares finds Indira quite unaware of him, lost as she seems to her thoughts. Not confused, persay, as her face has too much resolve hidden in the corners of her lips to believe her confused. Stuck. Perhaps stuck was the more appropriate word for what he saw. He is all blood and lily-petals, crossing the grass to her at his most fine and regal amble. Head bobbing in time, crest arched, nostrils flared to partake of whatever gifts of knowledge Shu could provide him.
She eats, but with no love of it nor appreciation for it. The wettening air swirls around him and he wonders if her mind has been taken so far as to miss his approach. In case such a thing were the case, there is a low rumbling nicker - deep and not unlike the thunder that rolls in the distance as the storm advances towards them. He wonders at her beauty, so like his brother and yet so much more refined in the edges and lines of ice and sand as one.
“You are playing succubus to the tempest with the storm that rides your eyes, Lady.” His tone gives capital to the last word, naming her Lady rather than simply calling her one. “I have seen the storms of water that rival our storms of sand. You must be a witch to ignore their threats so fully out here in the open.” It is only part flirtation, his admiration of her coloring the bemusement in his voice.
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