Falls

The story of Minthe and the stallion of curious countenance progresses apace. The image of her, strikingly beautiful, deliciously vulnerable, and wracked with fear is enough to ignite his protective instincts, and a small smile dances briefly over her lips when he turns from her and stands like a knight in shining onyx armor. It’s almost too easy, this song and dance, this pattern of it worn down by her old hoofprints. She understands the whims of men like nothing else: how to lead them to water, make them drink, and have them think it was all their idea. With strangers, it’s even easier. What stallion could resist a new bauble to fawn over? What would they do to keep it? What wouldn’t they do?

The red mare basks in the warmth of her knight’s regard, languishing like a tabby cat in a sunbeam. She soaks it up, thirsting for more. He doesn’t leap immediately into violence, not like the grullo had, but still he bends to her will, and the power of her influence on him is a reward in and of itself. Minthe decides he deserves his own reward, swishing her tail so that it glances encouragingly against his hocks. Not only does that small action give a taste of the sweetness held in her hard-won embrace, it serves as a reminder of everything at stake - and that he stands to lose, if he missteps. Minthe bends the soft curve of her neck to waft her saccharine breath over his muscled shoulder, and might have placed a caress there if not for a flash of movement in her periphery.

Now that her quarry’s back is turned, she can narrow her chocolate eyes at the ‘Teke, her ears laying flat against her mane. As he advances, she springs back, squealing and cavaling with a toss of her elegant head. Anger flares in her at his words; she knows he sees right through her actions, can read the meaning in them as if they were written in the dirt at their hooves, but she can’t be bothered to care because he is not worth her time and never will be, not while he lets the gift of his ancestry go to waste. That he dares to interfere with her careful arrangements is what sticks like a burr to her psyche and draws her ire bubbling to the surface. This unkempt little weakling can’t give her what she wants, not even close; he knows it, she knows it, even the stallion standing between them knows it, and the audacity of continuing to seek her out in spite of her obvious dismissal of him infuriated her.

“Get away from me, you monster!” she yells, her feminine voice like scalding hot water. Takes one to know one, dear Minthe.