He had been just one randy stallion amongst plenty to her at first - and had she the whimsy to engage in companionship, she might have even hidden behind following the lady Faolain to her own abode. But no, Cyrene was too blunt a creature to even give that false hope to a perfectly fine mare with such a good nature in her eyes. No lies, no half-truths. No fussing and fiddling with things that meant so little. If Faolain came about again, perhaps they could be passing companions. She would enjoy as much, she thinks.
But that was about as much thought as she could take for herself, being pursued as she found herself. Apollo, it would seem, was a persistent sort of stud-creature. He had no intention of letting her go - and perhaps that was just the littlest bit flattering. Flattering enough that she had slowed, that she had let him taste a touch of her flesh, had played cloying for as long as her temperament could have borne such sweetness. Then his chest had pressed the broadside of her haunch and she had whirled on him in a manner not unlike the lion he had fancied her for killing - taking bites of muscled flesh and kicking and pummeling into him repeatedly and solidly until he was left bereft of victory. She left his unrequited passions to his own management and let herself return to wandering.
He hovered at her heels, keeping a distance enough to drive her near to madness with his circumspect behavior -- until at last he took advantage of his given moment. He was not so savage as she had been, nor was his victory taken at too great a loss to her, and so her body cleaved and she was made to remember that passions could be stoked in things rougher than finely threaded words stringing from the lying tongues of men. His victory over her was more enticing than any amount of sweetened tone or fanciful vocabulary.
He was, of course, wise to keep distant for a time so that the next time he approached her bruises did not remind her to be ill-tempered towards him. It meant that when he approached this time, speaking to her as most lovers would, she found herself in a giving mood. "There is not much to speak of. I was born, I grew, I learned, I came here." It is perhaps not helpful, but she does not often divulge intimacies of no importance and so the question confuses her.
"I was guardian of my siblings, unusual among my people because I grew talented in fighting the predators that sought to cull the ill and young." She supposes that is something of an interest to him, having seen his delight in her conquest over the feline attacker. "I want little and need less, but I desire strength. In myself and in whoever finds interest in possessing me. I may love you yet, Apollo, but I will never love you into complacency or stagnation." It is a threat, a promise, and a challenge in one breath.
She looks at him as if to look through him, her expression matter-of-fact as her nostrils flare and she scents his interest, "If you forget to tend me, I will find others more attentive. If you wane in ambition and seek to satiate in me alone, I will forsake your weakness. If another wins me from you, I will cleave to whoever claims the deed of my body." Her eyes grow hard and stern, "Love will not soften me and though I may think of you fondly and often - I will do so as readily in the embrace of another as when you possess me."
Her tail snaps one last time, her body is shaken, but then her neck relaxes her posture and she seems to angle herself from direct confrontation and into a stance more accommodating to proximity. "If you still wish to curl your lip after me, I would like to hear what desires spur you into asking after mine." She lowers her head to graze, nonchalant to the last, but her eyes and ears are trained on him to that he might know that it is at least half farce.