Skylla watches him closely, her hazel eyes sweeping over his form as he stops mere paces before her, and she remains guarded for a moment longer. “Not uncomfortable, just don’t want to be touched,” she snaps, straightening and casting the stallion before her a withering look. As he stops in his approach, Skylla takes a decisive step forward, returning to her initial position, and plants herself there, almost daring the stallion to test her.
She scoffs, clearly unimpressed with his earlier answer to her question, or the string of titles that is offered to her, and she wonders if any of it is supposed to mean something to her. It may have been forgiven, if not for the next words to slip from between those curling lips of his.
“What is it you want?” the mare asks plainly, her tone blunt but not cutting, not yet at least. “You leave much to be desired, boy,” Skylla says after another lengthy scrutiny of him, of which she makes no attempt to be subtle about. Though she cannot be sure, since she remembers so little, Skylla is fairly certain she’d never been subtle in the lost years of her life. “You hear but do not listen, do not understand. You speak words without thought or meaning, and you look but do not see what matters, for you are slave to your desires, or perhaps you are weak.”
And there it is; a delivery of judgment that was not asked for, barbed and biting, its harshness not softened by the sudden hush of her voice. In fact, the lilting timbre of her words, and the way her eyes glittered beneath their lashes. In case it’s still not clear enough to the unknown male, Skylla decides to try a little kindness, and spells it out clearly. “This one would like you to leave now,” comes the purr. The silvery haired femme fatale does not move, though she seems to quiver in unspoken anticipation. “She was, after all, here first. And it was so peaceful before you blundered along.”
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