quinn.

Nyimara’s scowl brings a smug grin to Quinn’s face, and her bite to his shoulder prompts a growl of mixed lust and challenge. Their relationship up to this point has been… volatile, in the best of ways, so it should come as no surprise when Quinn pins his ears and snaps his blunt teeth right back at her, though his own bite catches nothing but air. The coffee-colored stallion does not want to incite Nyimara’s genuine wrath, but he is comfortable enough at this point to play a little rough.

“What?” he quips in a teasing, low growl. “Don’t tell me you had something else distracting you from the task at hand.”

Nyimara refocuses, her tail swaying at her heels as the gears turn in her mind, thoughts invisible to Quinn although he can take a guess. She begins to draw up a plan for him, and he listens carefully, familiar with the names of both of their neighbors by now although he has not met either of them yet. He gives a curt nod, and then she is off, prancing over the golden sand with lofty, purposeful steps. Quinn follows, his stockier build providing somewhat less airy strides, but he is well-suited for the sand even if he is not so pretty about pressing on through it. Nyimara’s ivory tail whips in the wind and dust ahead of him, and Quinn remains locked onto it like a beacon, following behind her with vigor, until she halts, and he slides to a standstill beside her.

There is little between them and the horizon but sand, and the distant red canyons of the Badlands. They continue on, Quinn’s eyes and mind stubbornly locked on the lathered flanks of Nyimara just ahead of him, his movements electric with lustful energy and yet carefully controlled. They both nearly tumble over the colt that appears on the dune with them, as though Nyimara’s plan has been prompted into action by her words. Quinn halts, tail lashing in brief irritation, but he reigns in his temper and forces his attention to shift to the present, away from whatever distracting temptations on which he had been lingering until this point.

His gaze flicks between Nyimara and the colt, waiting for her to give him instruction, but for a moment the silver bay mare only stares at the child, listening to the rasping little voice. Something feels off, but Quinn is not privy to the internal conflict within Nyimara, so he can only watch as she shifts from curiosity to nurturing, and then to something close to outright hostility.

But still she croons to him, tamping down whatever it was that had caused her to tense so suddenly, and Quinn is not about to argue. It appears they have found what they had been looking for.

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