The sound; it was not her own. Ashteroth freezes as if turned to stone, except for the faint quiver of delicate nares as she takes in the crisp Tinuvel scents around her. There, woven into the pine and stone, the musk of a stallion lingers. The familiar burn in the pit of her stomach makes Ashteroth want to leap into action; whether it be to run away or run towards the beast, she doesn’t know. Head turning, her blue eyes meet the glow of gold just as she had dreamed countless times. The predator looking at her as if she were the prey.


A snort escapes her ebony nostrils as she gives a forceful stomp with her front right, while her ears tip back into the tangles of her snow dusted mane. Touch me she wants to beg. Lay your teeth on me she wants to demand. Yet even in youth, Ashteroth will not show the weakness displayed by so many other mares in season. She reminds herself that she is still angry he has not come to find her. Has not fulfilled his claiming bite he had placed upon her flesh when they had first met.


While the stallion without a name (Parvati had called him Loup, but was that really it?) might hope for her to run; to turn her into his prey, Ashteroth dares to be as bold as she was the first time. Instead of leaping away, to be chased into the night, the young mare lunges forward into the shadows. She wants to bite him and strike at him, to punish him for her anger. But the desire to feel it in return; to have the mixture of pain and pleasure rake across her skin, she would never ask if that was natural. It was her secret. One she hoped to share with this silent stranger in the dark.