She isn’t alone for very long. The pale stallion who now holds the Prairie approaches, and Riesling watches him with narrowed eyes and half-pinned back ears. He’s a handsome sight, his pale, creamy coat as spotted as hers is with strikingly light eyes. He’s tall and well-built and Riesling is instantly suspicious. It’s always the pretty ones - the confidence, the attitude that comes from knowing they’re appreciated by mares. Riesling hates it. After all, isn’t that what got her in so much trouble to begin with? If she hadn’t fallen for a pretty face, for all that power and confidence, she wouldn’t have had to run. She wouldn’t have had to give up her darling Arneis and resign herself to a life of bitter, lonely regret. There is a long, tense moment where he pauses on the hill, obviously weighing the value in approaching. Ultimately, what she guesses is his desire for a cool drink outweighs the risk of her...less than eager attentions.

So when he slowly edges down the hill to the edge of the little pond, offers her a polite nicker, Riesling turns her honey-gold eyes on him and huffs out an unhappy noise. The part of her that had decided to pause for company is gone, that tiny voice inside of her viciously silenced and forced down. At least he doesn’t press into her space, leaving ample room between them - perhaps because he has rightly guessed she wouldn’t be open to such familiarity, or perhaps out of some strange respect (the same strange sort she got from Balor) for her existence. He watches her, and she watches him, and he comes to stop in the water, head lowering to drink.

Riesling takes the opportunity to study him, body tense and ready to...well, to run, or to fight back, she doesn’t really know. But she’s ready for whatever he might bring. It’s strange, here; all the stallions she have met have been kind or at the least polite. Even Balor - he led her home, sheltered her, let her recover and never even so much as demanded a moment of her time. Where Riesling came from, that wasn’t how things worked. Especially for women of her bloodline. Her sisters were traded away as soon as they came of age, either by her father or her brother - too many allies to keep happy, and too much to be gained from having a loyal sister with the ear of a stallion. She’s so lost in her thoughts that Riesling misses it when he steps forward, but she’s yanked from her thoughts at the sound of water splashing. Her ears pin back immediately and Riesling takes a desperate half-step back, neck arching and teeth bared. If he’s going to force the issue, she isn’t going to back down.

His approach stops there, though, and he speaks. His voice is even and polite, but it doesn’t lessen her suspicion or annoyance. His teasing comment is clearly intended to lighten the mood, but she doesn’t respond to it. She isn’t the light and chatty sort of mare. “Riesling,” she finally offers, voice tight and short. She watches him closely, and then adds, “I’m Balor’s mare. It was good of you to let us stay.” There’s more she wants to say, bitter thoughts left unspoken. ‘It was good of you, but I do not owe you for it. Don’t get any ideas; I am not so grateful that you will find me at your mercy.’ The words hang heavy in the air and the warm afternoon goes icy in the wake of her distrust. Riesling lets it lie, never one to struggle with tense, uncomfortable silences. Let this Zevulun speak, then, and give him enough rope to hang himself with. Left long enough, given the chance, every stallion shows themself to be the same; this one will be no different.