Falls

Nyimara watches the inkling stranger with peaked curiosity. Where any other might have taken the warning of her words to heart, the dark mare merely gazes back at her with a smile that does not seem to quite reach her eyes. There is no reserve or guarded eyes that stare back at her. Instead, the mare appears overall calm, stoic even. Nyimara is not sure for a moment whether she ought to feel more annoyed or intrigued.

The latter wins out.

’Good.’ the single word is enough to cause her brows to narrow in appreciation. There were very few in this word that met danger like she did. Instead of running from the storm, Nyimara found herself turning towards the squall with fire thrumming through her veins. A coy smile tugs at the corners of her ashen lips with knowing appreciation. A glimmer of respect dancing across her gaze. Another long moment of silence passes between them, interrupted only by the rushing roar of the pounding falls and churning water against the shore. Dark ears remain pressed forward amid the damp curling tendrils of her silver white mane as Nyimara continues to return the dark mare’s stare.

Finally, after what seems like hours have passed between them, the dark mare moves. The lithe curve of her glossy neck arches as she turns and takes a step towards her. Mahogany flutes flicker as again the woman’s sultry melody rises above the falling waters. ’We can rise alongside it’. The words cause her own smile to grow cunning. Slender legs propel her forward to meet the stranger. Uncoiling her own arching neck, Nyimara stretches her small muzzle towards the obsidian creature. ”There are those that might consider that…. dangerous.” she purrs, her own lilted tones a barely audible whisper, like a promise spoken between two lovers. Dark lashes blink slowly as she returns the mare’s gleaming gaze with one ignited by her own fires. ”Those that hide….” she begins, ”They have no place here.” This is her belief. Too long these islands have been filled with soft hearted creatures such as Siobhan and Bjorn. A weak and rotting sore to marr the lands. They have never had to struggle to overcome as she has, they are…. Nothing.

”Nyimara.” she states, withdrawing her neck to angle her head just slightly away from the stranger, a Cheshire grin spreading across her knowing lips. ”Who are you that would join me in this rushing pleasure?”

Perhaps there was hope after all.