Her battle-weary body is wondrous in the eyes of a warrior-kin like himself, even though it be on the body of a mare and not a stallion. It speaks to her talents, to a talent that was normally left for the men and that women normally steered clear of until the battle was within their own tents and their good names laid upon the alter for sacrifice without their fighting back. There is a undercurrent beneath that jaded eye and countenance that speaks to a flame that had been banked too harshly and burdened with wetted wood - rather than fed the tinder and incense to thrive. It pains him, even as he is yet a stranger to her.
Perhaps she needed no protector, but what of love and cherishing that came from someone who valued her for the wondrous creature she was outside of war and loss and red-hazed battle? His lips twitch, in earnest to play across the wondrous painting the canvas of her hide offered. She was not of The People - could not be First Wife - but perhaps love and adoration could entice even a warrior-woman of her sort to entertain overtures with a Prince of No Land.
Her regarding him is not awed, is something almost dismissive if he were any less sure of himself, but she returns his call and it welcomes him despite the whisper of it almost washed away in the winds. The wind buffets them both, tangling their manes as he comes close enough to offer his nostril in a subtle manner that welcomed either exchange or dismissing. "You are mistaken, kind Sir, for I am the storm."
The poetry in her reply, the imagery, is enough to make his gut clench and his neck arch as if straining to bask in the glory of her self-knowledge. She is perhaps not so young as he is, but her wildness calls to the Desert Flame that burned in him with Set’s unquenchable thirst. “Something tells me that I’d be wiser to thrash my pride at the one in the sky before I dared tempt you with such a challenge.” he sounds amused, but there is real respect in his gaze and it is unspoken that his amusement is that he truly could not say he’d win if he had so dared.
“Your storm, though, I might welcome.”. He eyes the sky with distrust, letting a hind hoof stomp his discomfort - clearly unabashed in exposing that moment of expression to even a stranger. “Shall you compete, then, with your cousin? Or could I convince you away from the trouble that carves itself into your face -- and the storm you seem fit to bask in?”
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