Meadow

He has tucked his sister into her own copse of willows, sure of her intention to remain there and rest rather than besmirch his claim on her rights over the folly of a single season. His curled hears prick forward, his interest set off into the night where he had already found himself a relief to the season once before. It was perhaps not the most noble of intentions, but it is fulfilling to something in his gut and that itches in his crest so that his mane dances on a stilled form.

His brown eyes look black in the night, his hide still smelling of spices and desert heat despite having come here in the summer, his spirit coils like the tiger within his breast. He is perhaps not a predator by form, but he is not far from it in intentions. He is just about to set himself forward when splashing rouses his interest in the direction of the shore.

He sees her there, bathed in moonlight and the heat of her season, and he stands idle for a moment to revel in it’s beautiful composition. Woman. Freed from the sea, she kicks her heels, she turns her hooves into the reaching waters so that she might drink in the winds that came across the shore. He is no Arab or Teke to worship such winds, but he is Tandava - the dance of a Man. He sees her beauty and it calls to him like a summons. She is, for him, his own Lasya - the dance of a Woman.

Her whinny drags his own clarion call in reply from his chest, head tossed and legs moving before he even had a chance to think about what it was he was doing. It is an echo of her own, but more pointed, more succinct. It is Satisfaction, Intrigue, Eagerness intended only for her. His canter brings him nearer, his blonde-bleached mane framing a striped red face as he offers a smile. The sand offers contrast for his dark legs, the moon catches the roaning of his hide, but it is his eyes sparking that would have given her the most expression in the night.

“You have the look of one itching for freedom and open places.”