the most dangerous woman of all is the one who refuses to rely on your sword because she carries her own
It commenced with a scanty shimmer as if the space in front of Maerys was being warped and distorted. Then, in a flash of spectral, silvery luster, a man loomed before her, a man which she did not recognize. Gradually he came into focus in the same style as a subject studied through a telescope, but this phantom was near, very near. The uninterrupted blackness shielded her from identifying him earlier thus establishing his presence suddenly and without caution. Her mauve sights stretched wide and she flinched lightly away from him as he developed from the obscurations.
At first, his tongue susurrated sounds she did not understand, akin to the soft racket of the wind in the trees, then as she focused more dearly and rallied her scattered attention, the ghost became more clear, the murmur registered in her mind as an everyday voice (merely a voice that had caught her off guard, by the looks of it). His mass, easily apparent now, was of expensive silver and succulent peach. Even in the forest, the dulcet finish of his flesh gleamed softly at whatever light it managed to latch onto. His eyes were novel and somewhat otherworldly, though Maerys met them with dedication. "I did not see thee coming, pardon my fear." The words tumbled gradually and tentatively out of her mouth, each one encased in a delicate blend.
Maerys thought the man to be (at tiniest) half a heel taller than herself just by promptly eyeing it. He was more perfected than herself, aged well like the abundant and earthly wine from her homeland. His tresses fell from his crest and dock sleekly, thin filaments of silver (more radiant than her own). As she subtly heeded his presence, she questioned what he was doing in the forest now. She estimated he would not bring difficulty by the lack of mischief that lurked in his eyes and lips though such could be veiled like the heavens behind the fogs. Had he wanted to maim and murder her, he would not have manifested himself so obviously (she assumed). He appeared so removed from wicked that Maerys dropped her guard marginally, her nerves pacifying and her reserved demeanor flourishing.
"Maerys is mine own name," she submitted to the stallion, praying that he would return with his own title. "I am a squarer in the lands," her lilt came again. "A soldier, officially." She wanted, needed, to discern if he was a member of Delumine or some other estate. Beyond requiring her home to be safe because it was her responsibility as a warrior, she wanted her home to be safe for all those that resided in it. She cared intensely for the children, dams, sires, and outcasts that took refuge in the manor walls as Dawn Court brothers and sisters. She ached to identify if this stallion was a menace or not but she had no means of telling if he was (or wasn't) part of Delumine unless outright told.
