Rim
dark bay Hanoverian mutt | 16.1hh | five years old | reli
you were wild once
don’t let them tame you.
She does not take pleasure in the stallion’s moment of exposure, does not revel in the crack he has bared between the barriers that lie between strangers. She hadn’t asked for it, or wanted it, and she doesn’t care to find any shred of commonality between them. Rim is too caught up in the chaos of her own mind, swallowed up in the wildness of her thoughts as she struggles to move on from wounds that are freshly healed (scars that still threaten to split open and bleed again). He tucks his head for a moment, while his last words continue to echo in the space between them, “like somehow the world isn’t as loud.”
“It rarely is,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “Most are afraid of the dark, and hide themselves from the shadows. Whose to say if they are the wise or unfortunate ones?” She says this with a slow roll of her shoulders, her tone drawling from her lips and her caramel eyes flashing briefly to the tobiano with a scorn that makes her question a rhetorical one. Be that as it may—Rim will keep the stars for herself. She has never liked sharing.
Slanting an ear forward, she catches his introduction with her gaze fixing steadily on his slender features. “Solomon,” she repeats slowly, tasting each syllable and enjoying the way they roll smoothly off her tongue. “I like your name,” she admits with a roguish twist of her lips. There is nothing coy about the mare’s demeanor; she is a coiled snake, a striking panther, never a blushing lamb. She is unabashed, her words hardly a compliment for him and spoken more in gratification for herself. The rigidness in her tawny eyes serves to emphasize the difference, though her dark lips remain curled in that impish, wicked smirk.
She only looks away when Solomon inquires after her origins. It is a simple question, a common one even, but she is never ready.
“Rim,” she cuts in, trying to decide whether she appreciates the pet name, her nostrils flaring in a quiet exhale before caramel eyes return to his. “Call me Rim. And…no. I’m not from here,” it is a confession that comes with the bite of venom on her tongue. Is it a sign of weakness, to admit that she does not know this place? Experience has taught her to keep her guard, and her pride refuses to allow any insecurities to slip. Her chin rises defiantly while her thick tail whips once around her flanks. “I’m well-travelled, you could say. I haven’t decided yet if this place is worth sticking around,” Rim chuckles once, a humorless sound that is quickly lost to the night.