quinn.

The filly confronts him as Quinn approaches, and he is both irritated and impressed with her bravery. His coffee-colored ears tick forward, hiding the brief flicker of annoyance; the little one takes after her mother, and he should really not be surprised by her boldness. For any other foal, he might consider this to be insubordination, but for Nyimara’s child, it would be concerning if she were not so arrogant.

His icy gaze lifts from the child as Nyimara teases him. Quinn gives a single rumbling chuckle, little more than a soft hm. “Who does, really?” he jests. One corner of his mouth turns up in a mischievous smile, and his gaze drops to the filly again. “My apologies,” he says somberly.

Nyimara moves toward him, and Quinn takes this as an invitation to close the distance. He reaches for her, slowly but confidently, and traces a line from her ear along the bulge of muscle in her crest. She smells of sweat, blood, and dust, and he breathes her in greedily. “A fitting name. She looks like you,” he murmurs. And, appreciatively, “she’s got your fire, it would seem.”

stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.