Meadow

Chaos comes for her in its own way. True to nature, unpredictable and wild, there’s no gentle approach with the company that drifts - or, should she say, crashes - into her life, a stallion of frosted gold nearly slamming into her. Minthe catches the approach of his hoofbeats first, the flash of his brilliant coat in her periphery last; she leaps away from him with the ease and grace of a gazelle, the glare she’d half-fixed to her face wiped clean with shock. Instead of invading her space on purpose - either to drive her somewhere else, or force her into a more intimate form of contact - he seems almost as taken aback as her, and what’s more, he greets her sudden closeness with a scream and a flash of his blunt teeth. Minthe’s ears melt into the red sea of her mane, and the pliable sweetness in her eyes turns sour. Maybe it’s the season, or the varied emotions running through her head, or maybe it’s just that he’s so goddamned rude, but ire burns hot in her lungs. How dare he? This wasn’t her fault, nor a ruse made up to manipulate a situation to work in her own favor; if anything, it should be her to lash out at him for daring to enter her space, not the other way around.

Anger isn’t what she expected to get out of this, but for now, she’d take it. A release is a release, whether it inflicts harm or atones for it.

Minthe watches the roan’s back as he strides away from her for a moment, lashing her tail against the sharp points of her hocks. Before he can get too far away, however, she’s leaping into first a trot, then a canter, resisting the urge to pinch the tender skin at his flanks as she passes him and wheels, instead, to face him head-on once more, bracing her legs for the inevitable impact and barking out an abrupt gasp of a laugh as they collide. The fiery mare leans into the press of her supple chest against his, aiming to push him back. “Are you blind?” she spits through gritted teeth, lifting the soft bow of her neck to bring her lips to his ear. Her cheek brushes against his, and she shudders - with what emotion, exactly, she can’t quite tell. Fear? Rage? Pleasure? They’re all so near to each other, battling for dominance over her mind, that they’re all blending together into one multifaceted being, an amalgam of differently-colored strings tugging her towards a certain end.

Minthe pushes against him harder, the ghost of a cheshire grin fluttering over her delicate face. Her words come in the form of sultry whispers; another swish of her tail spreads the heady scent of her heat into the air around them, too obvious for any self-respecting man to fully ignore.

“Hey, mister,” the ‘Teke mare murmurs, her voice tender despite the aggression writ plain in her posture. “You owe me an apology.” The sudden narrowing of her eyes is the only warning he gets; in the next moment, she turns, and what scraps of feigned innocence she still dons fall to the floor, abandoned. Her neck bends, quick as a viper, to give her better access to the soft skin behind his elbow. Her lips pull back, teeth reaching to grab a bit of flesh and pinch. Minthe doesn’t fight fair, doesn’t listen to whatever the rules of honor and chivalry are and keep her hooves clean; given the choice, she’d rather delegate violence, sit back and observe the effects of her handiwork. But pushed like this, alone, taken by surprise and fueled by the powerful influence of her hormones, all she wanted to do was to give this insolent nobody a taste of the same garbage he’d dished out to her. She would make him hurt for his disrespect, put him firmly back in his place, and when she was done, she’d venture to Salem and claim everything else she knew she was rightfully entitled to.