s w a h i l i
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
The desert rose is moving swiftly, her delicate limbs carefully pulling her through the shadows and out of the alley she had briefly been taken with. But her journey back home, unsolicited; would not be fulfilled. Her head half ducked, her hazel gaze directed towards the ground, with the basket of carefully packaged goods held by the handle in her mouth, she was all ready for a quick escape - only to have to draw up short, very quickly; upon discovering the gem-encrusted stallion in her way. She stumbled back, hooves scrambling to keep from colliding into him, haunches dropping to help stop herself faster, drawing herself up short. Upon coming to a complete stop (thankfully without crashing into him!) She followed it up with three hasty steps back to put space between herself and the stranger. His gaze however was directly on her, his smile may seem soft - but Swahili was already cautiously on guard.
The dove had been raised out of sight of the rest of the world, with only her brother offering her a gentle countenance. Most other interactions she had, had been alarmingly negative to the point of actively avoiding the rest of her family (especially her father) So this male may smile softly, but she would not be inclined to believe that softness without prompt evidence. She did consider his words, however, and she forced herself to give a strained smile in response, "Er, yes, Solis. Right." Her words were mumbled, quiet. Phrased as if she were not certain she was even saying the name of the Day Court God correctly. He was the God of Solterra, yes; but he was not the god, any of the gods; of her mother's people. It prompted her hesitance, even if she offered the God quiet respect.
The odd mineral-fused stallion had offered himself a name, however. Jarek. The sound was so rough and abrupt to the desert dancer's ears. Harsh, rigid, unmoving. Jarek. Her smile lessens but she slowly dips her head in quiet awkwardness, "My name is Swahili Ataear, of House Ataear." She responded, as she'd been trained when introducing herself to others. She was a member of her father's house after all, and that demanded the highest of respect - apparently. She thought her father just liked the power and respect he was able to demand, and no one was willing to argue with him.
And she was just the unwanted bastard child everyone was aware of, but no one was willing to talk about. The world of the elite just quietly looked the other way and pretended like the proof wasn't there. This Jarek soon speaks again, commenting on her 'agile' way of moving. But his words on if she'd considered training for combat, had the first true emotion flashing across her features. Swahili's eyes went wide, as she flinched back in obvious revulsion, "C-Combat? L-like fighting? No, goodness no! Absolutely not!" The little mare practically squeaks, eyes wide in horror, "No, I cannot say I have ever considered training for . . . for combat." She says the word with a level of disgust that speaks of her opinion on the matter, of her distress at the idea. "I am not the right sort of temperament for a soldier, regardless." Her ears pin slightly, expression confused, slightly bothered, "And to what point would you ask a lady such a thing? There are more professions than . . . that the military for agility, as well." She added, before glancing away and towards the crowd, "I apologize, but I should get going. My father would . . . . be displeased, to say the least; if he comes to realize I have left the estate without permission."
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Jarek
Notes: :D
