Conditions Of My Parole.

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

The thunder of those massive hooves (probably three times the size of her own), and his damning, domineering stride, seemed suddenly to ease behind her, enticing those listening ears upon her poll, to swivel. Quickly the lean, chiselled, white face beneath followed suit, turning with a brazen gaze gleaming in the sickening, neon light; within them pooled mischievous intent, but deeper still was the ripple of hopeless longing. 

That smile that licked wickedly smug around her maw fell abruptly, instantly, for the scarlet-faced stallion had abandoned his ire for the very much duller preoccupation of common sense - maturity. 

His interest had waned far sooner than she thought, and his retiring retaliation cut through to the core. 

While there was a visible element of superficial dissatisfaction sweeping through her expression, those churning veins below, tingled with the sting of his rejection. Caught in the grip a deafening silence, Zahra watched his slow and smooth retreat; not one glance spared to the rear. A sort of resentful anger bristled the hair along her spine, and trembling tongue ached to hurl just one last insult through the rain…

And she might have, had not those skulking shadows swirled by to claim another thrown down through that portal. 

Instead, the winged girl’s attention diverted and her limbs took motion, warily sliding from the path of that queer, cold-eyed presence, and away towards the south - the rainforest - where the ceaseless onslaught of the wet season would be eased even a little. There would be others soon enough; perhaps more susceptible than that Dread-ful, stallion.
 

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