She doesn’t realize he’s there, at first. It takes her a moment, to hear the sound of steps behind her, to hear the soft sound of fabric whispering against sand and quivering in the wind. There is still nothingness at the edges of her when she turns to meet his words.
His robes are red and gold, bright against the sandstone and sand-filled city. His skin is dusky and blue, like late morning skies filled with clouds. But his eyes… his eyes are red like blood. Except for the one poised upon his forehead, beneath a long and pointed horn.
None of these things matter to her. Her sage green eyes zero in on one thing: a collar, though leather and black, strung high upon his neck, right around his throat. And his smile, which looks how Teiran images it would look if she tried to smile. Like it is wrong, incomplete. It looks nothing like the smiles other equines wear.
“It’s not for sale,” she responds, rather flatly, as if asserting the previous point she has just finished making. Then, still uncertain of and trying to gauge his intentions, she says, “They were made for me, a matching pair.” Almost, at least.
If one of them weren’t enchanted. If one of them weren’t able to be directed to a bullseye by her very thought. The soldier tries not to think about who had them made, tries not to imagine eyes that are gold and then black. Eyes both gilt and sapphire. Eyes blue and cold, cold, cold.
All the eyes in her life that have made her, stripped her, and left her.
"Speaking."
His robes are red and gold, bright against the sandstone and sand-filled city. His skin is dusky and blue, like late morning skies filled with clouds. But his eyes… his eyes are red like blood. Except for the one poised upon his forehead, beneath a long and pointed horn.
None of these things matter to her. Her sage green eyes zero in on one thing: a collar, though leather and black, strung high upon his neck, right around his throat. And his smile, which looks how Teiran images it would look if she tried to smile. Like it is wrong, incomplete. It looks nothing like the smiles other equines wear.
“It’s not for sale,” she responds, rather flatly, as if asserting the previous point she has just finished making. Then, still uncertain of and trying to gauge his intentions, she says, “They were made for me, a matching pair.” Almost, at least.
If one of them weren’t enchanted. If one of them weren’t able to be directed to a bullseye by her very thought. The soldier tries not to think about who had them made, tries not to imagine eyes that are gold and then black. Eyes both gilt and sapphire. Eyes blue and cold, cold, cold.
All the eyes in her life that have made her, stripped her, and left her.
