Falls

He is not overbearing, not pushy, but neither is he entirely clear about his purpose beyond having heard her humming tune. The air itself whispered to her about the virility of him, of his being a fit and healthy stallion in his prime, but she also detected a sort of disconnect. A smell of a herd, but almost too faint to articulate as might usually be the case with horses she met or passed on the average day. Both Ironclad and Bjorn had smelled like the Inlet, even when Ironclad had spent enough time to add salt and sand to the crispness of years living in the rocky mountain places. He intrigues her, so she steps at an angle to let him join her.

Her voice does not seem to have lost its charm, she supposes, as she watches him form a compliment saying a similar thing. Her clarification that she had not sung in a mind of being listened to does bring an apology, but his explanation is flattering enough that she responds in his favor. "The delight of the senses is certainly hard to resist, no matter what sense there is to appease." His presence behind the waterfall, she silently considered, was the perfect example. The warmth of him even that near was enough to make her flesh tingle - she finds she needs to shake herself as if to shake herself of sleep to keep from closing that gap and basking a little.

Had Ironclad truly unraveled her composure so much? Had it really only been her perception of her captivity that let her resist him? She lets herself loose her breath in a snort as the shake subsides and she is properly poised again. Their mirrored shakes seemed to loosen his tongue, "I'm Kamekaze, by the way. I live in the badlands, on Salem. I was venturing through the crossing to see if anyone was looking for company or a place to stay. What brings you to the falls?"

She smiles, though the smile is a torturedly torn expression. "I am Chalice, Kamekaze." She starts, politeness extending her neck to present him with a delicate, milky white nose with it’s haze of pink. Her breath, she was often told, smelled of sunshine and honey. His, she thought, smelled of harsher drought and yet slightly of sharp spices that could only come from a healthy demesne. He hadn’t the feel of a Master of his own Demesne, nor the nature… and it is perhaps the only thing that keeps him from getting the full line of her body slid against his. He could not (at least not yet) be the Man of Fire she had been foretold to belong to.

"I have need to seek out a stallion told to me in prophetic telling in my homeland. A Man of Fire is supposed to bring me into my own and fulfill me in my namesake. I have not had a single instance where I felt close to understanding how to find him." Once again her voice grows distant in her telling, almost as distant as when she sought respite in the wellspring of feeling in the earth beneath her. When she looks back at him with her summer-sky eyes, she seems to regard him with a little extra interest, though. "I have not been to your Salem. I have only been here in this gathering place and the Inlet on what you call Tinuvel… perhaps you have the freedom to introduce me to the lands of Salem?"