She had seen play before, but never participated - and though the tall chestnut could not know, this was something more than a simple game for the sake of fun. A genuine shiver of thrill traveled down her spine when she felt the warm wind of Ironclad’s breath on her flanks, but she did not surrender immediately to the ache of wanting that followed. Instead, the Friesian mare squealed again, twisting her slender body away from the greying stallion and leading him on a breathless chase towards the forest beyond. Never before had she run so fast, sweat darkening patches of her red coat and limbs straining to their utmost. However, even with her exertions this was a game that Kvothe was destined to lose. She could feel the pull of Ironclad growing stronger despite the distance that had opened between them with her initial surge of speed.

And in response, she began to slow - transitioning from a hard gallop to a gentler lope as she entered the wood, weaving between the trees with graceful certainty. There was a sanctity to this place; a cathedral-like stillness that nevertheless seemed to breathe in a life of its own. But even the softened thuds of her hooves in the soil disrupted that rhythm, and Kvothe found herself stopping for the sake of restoring the profound and beautiful silence. Another shudder traveled the full length of her spine as she let her dark eyes fall closed, surrendering herself momentarily to the sensations of both her surroundings and her body. And over both, she could hear the steady beat of Ironclad drawing near. Resisting the urge to glance back at the stallion, Kvothe instead imagined what he would look like as he approached, his strides less graceful than hers, but more powerful. His pupils dilated, and his eyes darkened by the chaotic swirl of emotions that she couldn’t name, but also felt.

Gathering herself against the giddy, overwhelming joy within her, the slim chestnut turned to face Ironclad at last. “My Prince, you might not have won the treasure that you sought,” she began in a voice that wavered with feeling. “But you have won my heart. And I hope that can at least be of small comfort to you, as you have been to me.” Kvothe had taken great care over the course of the past couple days to keep the injured cheek out of sight. Her natural tendency to glance down or to the side - rarely making eye contact - also helped to divert attention from the wound. But borne aloft by desire, she looked directly at the dark stallion now, displaying the flawed pucker of her healing flesh with no less pride than she would have displayed perfection.

The trial of losing her home and family had been difficult. But if this was to be her reward, then Kvothe considered the scar that she would always bear a gift.

Without conscious command, her slender legs began to carry her toward Ironclad, the seductive sway of her hips and dance of her tail products of instinct alone. But the way that she reached out to caress his cheek with the velvet-soft skin of her muzzle was hers, and hers alone. As was the series of gentle, nibbling kisses that she trailed down the arched curve of his neck, seeking to express in more than words - since speech alone seemed to fall short - how her stallion made her feel.

By the time that her lips brushed over Ironclad’s withers and then began to trace alone the ridge of his spine, instinct had begun to take over again. She took one step closer, the skin of her shoulder brushing along his belly. Another, and then she leaned against him, their bodies touching fully along their lengths - her hip beside his shoulder, and his hip besides hers. The movements had brought her touch to the base of Ironclad’s dark tail, and Kvothe breathed raggedly into the flesh there before she resumed what she had begun before, raking her teeth gently along his dock. Then, pressing lower still, she buried her muzzle in the long threads of the stallion’s tail and sighed softly.