N E F E R T A R I
The mare watched as the stallion next to her kiped the forgotten sun cake and wolfed it down with a nearly feral, but practiced motion. It was endearing, in a way. She had spent too many days in the light of noble houses and the glitz and glamour (lies of course, always lies) had grown boring. This was refreshing. He humbled himself a bit, acknowledging her earlier statement, and then introduced himself, as if it were the most important thing that he might share with her that afternoon. He levitated only slightly as the drunken words left his lips.
“Galileo. Galileo Kodarki,” he stressed the surname, and something almost akin to a lost pride resonated in it, she thought, a name that once held great value. She tucked that information away for later, in case such a thing came to be useful. “Third of his name, son of Bagheera, blah-de-blah, nobody gives a shit.”
A bright chuckle bubbled from the mare’s throat. The conduct of the stallion was far from what most would consider to be polite for society, but she enjoyed it thoroughly. Invigorating, his blatant disregard for courtesy, though if that was his usual carriage or just a by-product of the drink swirling around in his belly, she was unsure, though the latter seemed far more likely. “And who are you?”
The question was one that the sooty woman was used to answering, but there was something about this stallion that caught her off guard. The question was a challenge she supposed. After all, he had prattled his own name with such gusto, clearly he thought himself to be some person of importance. And who was she to share drinks with him?
A sly smile graced her lips and she held the man’s gaze steady with her golden pools. They flashed with a deep fire beneath their smoky frame.
“Galileo. Galileo Kodarki,” he stressed the surname, and something almost akin to a lost pride resonated in it, she thought, a name that once held great value. She tucked that information away for later, in case such a thing came to be useful. “Third of his name, son of Bagheera, blah-de-blah, nobody gives a shit.”
A bright chuckle bubbled from the mare’s throat. The conduct of the stallion was far from what most would consider to be polite for society, but she enjoyed it thoroughly. Invigorating, his blatant disregard for courtesy, though if that was his usual carriage or just a by-product of the drink swirling around in his belly, she was unsure, though the latter seemed far more likely. “And who are you?”
The question was one that the sooty woman was used to answering, but there was something about this stallion that caught her off guard. The question was a challenge she supposed. After all, he had prattled his own name with such gusto, clearly he thought himself to be some person of importance. And who was she to share drinks with him?
A sly smile graced her lips and she held the man’s gaze steady with her golden pools. They flashed with a deep fire beneath their smoky frame.
“Nefertari,”
she said, words flowing like silk. She was unsure if it was that his presentation begged her to give one of equal measure or she simply enjoyed the thrill of teasing him, but she pressed on in her response regardless of reason.
“First of her name, daughter to who gives a damn from House nobility that none care to remember.”
She chuckled again, signaling to the bartender to pour her another drink.
A glass of gold rimmed in delicate sugar appeared before the mare and she eyed it carefully before beginning to drink from it. One could wager there might not be any alcohol present in the chalice, for it tasted sweeter than any nectar from any other fruit that had passed her lips. She took another pull, this one deeper than the first, and the crystals from the precipice of the glass clung to the fair whiskers at the end of her muzzle.
A glass of gold rimmed in delicate sugar appeared before the mare and she eyed it carefully before beginning to drink from it. One could wager there might not be any alcohol present in the chalice, for it tasted sweeter than any nectar from any other fruit that had passed her lips. She took another pull, this one deeper than the first, and the crystals from the precipice of the glass clung to the fair whiskers at the end of her muzzle.
“And you are lucky, Galileo, that those names mean nothing to me.”
She raised her half finished glass in a mock of a toast.
“Let us instead drink as two vibrant people instead of some dull representations of our forgotten families.”
And then she tossed back the last of the golden liquid and slid the empty container back across to the bartender. The warmth of the liquor spread through her belly and settled there, waiting to loosen her tongue.
