Out of the cauldron and into the fire?

Tactless and feisty, quite incapable of understanding the real danger the Rift’s otherworldly inhabitants presented (or her very plausible vulnerability among them), the young horse swayed giddily, caught up quick-fast in the wild wind of her adolescent excitement. Perhaps Vynter had been an entirely unnecessary focus; maybe this brown git would fit the mould her rather perverted intention perfectly! Rising to the bait of his retort like a moth to the flame, Valkyrie fanned out the pristine feathers behind the intricate wings of their shielding helm; her padded breast inflated, the proud fjord-type crest beneath the  cascade of near-white mane arched and the soft blue colour in her eyes sparkled with malice that seemed not to suit her otherwise dovelike image. Though her small neat hooves skipped and skidded through the rotting litter across the forest floor like horny jackrabbits in the spring, and despite the antagonising method she used to rile his reaction, the stallion about-faced, seemed hardly even to flinch; his voice, however, was stern, authoritarian (her rebellious mindset decided), and she met the cold gaze which fell back to find her, with a cocky glare, equally unfriendly. The tendrils of her own long, lavish tail licked eagerly across each flexing thigh. Should there have been a warning present in his tone or his eye, the shameless young Shieldmaiden paid it no heed. Valkyrie longed to see his putrid, predictable worth unravel; she craved his retaliation, an insult to validate the hatred boiling in her belly. Suddenly the prize she’d seen in Vynter’s undoing seemed too easy, and her ambition set upon a far grander trophy. An ear… or a horn… they seemed like such trivial goals. No. This was a competition and she refused to settle for any small token. His manner was poised and proper, smooth and confident (a mere glint of frustration). This one wasn’t as sensitive as the first; he stood ground, and defiantly, she did too. Perhaps a change of tactics would crack his exterior and expose the vile animal which huddled beneath. Valkyrie had listened well in her classes, she was so sure, so convinced. Her determination to unhinge him (there, while they were alone) was ruthless as the understanding of the word was distorted. There was no broader viewpoint. Her fidgeting ceased suddenly and her ostentatious display slimmed to a posture less hostile. Fine, pointed ears leaned attentively against the sound of the words he lastly offered and her eyes flicked broodingly between the cool grip of his own. Though his suggestion that he could have morals beyond that basic feral instinct snagged her fancy (she scoffed quietly, obnoxiously, glancing away for the slightest of seconds), Valkyrie could not see past suspicion - he, man, were crafty and deceptive. She would not so easily fall to the persuasive spell of silly words. Vynter had tried flattery - pretty… As the heat through her core began to dissipate (though the hubris did not), she looked a little closer and notice that he wore a queer sheet of metal, where perhaps a wing like Roscorro’s should have grown; also did she note the series of brands upon his skin, strange blue whip lines - similar to those dealt to her by that wretched, burning plant. “So are you a slave?” She blurted suddenly, a new interest fashioning through her mind; and a second thought, “What purpose has a horse in the middle of the ocean?”