Meadow

Death often arises when least expected. The idea of a choice - to choose how one's life ends - is admirable, yet usually unattainable. She has witnessed the coming of the shrouded shoulders. stooped with burdensome responsibilities, swoop is more deftly than the chill seeping into their bones. Her past is moth-eaten moments of irreparable damage contrasting with episodes of glorious victories. While her own ideas on how to greet death may seem whimsical and foolish, she bases her opinions on the evidenced desolation seen within her seven years. If she were to choose - and the old version of her would demand the choice - she would greet her death with open arms but only when she felt her life complete.

Her own gaze drops as his falters and she mentally catalogues the mere seconds of him being lost within his circulating thoughts. She waits while she ponders what internal struggle has the man so lost within himself. His words elicit an amused look from her and a lazy swish of her tail. Does he know true monsters? she wonders quietly. She has seen children murdered upon assumptions and women exiled on a whim. She has been the executioner lurking behind hooded mask and wielding hefty blows. Her form may be that of a lithe and innocent woman but the sham is no mistake. The ease of which he names himself a monster is enough to give her the slightest of pause. Often time monstrosities do not like to share their domain - he may be best left behind, for his sake as much as hers.

She moves closer as she returns his smirk with a slightly salacious one of her own. Her velvet lips brush gently against his nape, warm breath huffed out gently to provide a pleasant tickle. "I certainly have intent, though the depravity of it has yet to be determined." She stays beside him, resolved to relay that she is not intimidated by his self-proclaimed status. She inhales deeply, assessing the scents of other women still lingering in areas that the ocean waters could not reach. "You are not the only nightmare lurking..." she whispers softly. "What has left you so undone as to haunt this meadow on an apparently boorish night"? She is astute enough to determine that something has driven the painted stallion from his home. Her mind is ever spinning and always looking for any fault of character she may find within others. For these reasons, she asks him directly what plagues him. He may be right in assuming that the fates have thrown them together. Perhaps they each are what the other deserves even as she dreams of new beginning and he shrinks from the realities of the crimes he has committed.