Meadow

Minthe’s ears dart sideways at the rough bark of laughter that pulls from the stallion’s lips. His voice crackles like static between them, and she almost doesn’t hear his insults, so focused is she on the sheer victory of pulling words like teeth out of the silent stranger. She clutches each one close to her chest, even as they poke their sharp, barbed ends into her, and treasures them; they are but few of the hard-won trinkets she plans to prize from this encounter, a ring of fangs that will look so pretty around her delicate neck. Ah, she sighs inwardly, her lips pulling back in a smirk as she tenses, ready to strike. So he does talk.

In a flash she has him, blood’s coppery tang spilling in molten drops over her tongue. She shakes her head like a wild dog with a rat, the force of her movements shoving her russet hips back into his ivory ones, and she would have kept going had he not locked his shining body into a sudden stop. Minthe releases him, drawing her own thin frame up short, and fixes him with eyes that glitter in challenge. Wherever it is he’s pulled - and she knows he’s pulled somewhere, judging by his determination to be rid of her and the laser-focus of his pace - he won’t get there until she’s finished with him.

Age steals much from its countless victims. It takes the body, the mind, and eventually, the soul. This old cretin, however wily, was living on borrowed time. Unfortunately for him, Minthe, with the endless tenacity of youth, had all the time in the world.

They stand there for a moment, silent but for their own staggered breathing, the mare tensed to either chase after him or shove her weight against his mottled hide. Instead, he surprises her, and it’s her turn to throw out a low bark of laughter at his words, her hooded stare falling into fathomless shadow. Part of her doesn’t care about what he has to say, knows it won’t mean shit in the long run and she could just escalate the physical aspects of their altercation until one - or both - of them crumble into dust… but the other part is glad to move in step with him, to see how he fares in a duel of words now that he’s deigned to open his fat trap and try.

“You could have avoided all of this,” she says after a beat, “had you minded your own space.” Her voice comes carefully neutral, gentle as she continues. Her head tilts, one fluted ear flicking back in thought. “Or,” she murmurs, drawing close, “is it really that you wanted to approach me, to woo me for yourself, but you got cold hooves at the last minute and you lashed out?” Judging by his response to her thus far, she can surmise that the opposite is true, and he’d love nothing more than to be rid of her for good… and it’s this knowledge, this subtle way to worm herself under his skin, that drives her to taunt him in the first place, and to push it as far as she can get it to go.

“Oh!” Minthe lifts her head, eyes bright with feigned surprise. “I know what it is!”

Her tail snaps again, looking down on the stallion with withering pity.

“You can’t.” She grins, though there’s not an ounce of humor in the curve of her spotted lips. “You can’t do it anymore, can you? Look at yourself. Even I have bested you. You’re probably not even strong enough to lift your weight onto a mare’s back.”

Minthe arches the proud bow of her neck, daring to bring her nose to his creamy flesh. She doesn’t touch him, preferring to let her hot, sickly-sweet breath flow over the thick muscle at his crest. Her tone, soft as velvet, aims to wrap him in the powerful cords of her web and pass it off as a warm blanket, couch the sharp point of her vitriol in the folds until she can wield its silvery blade and plunge it deep into his chest.

“Pathetic.”

Perhaps this will be the thread she pulls that leads, however roundabout, to his unraveling.