What, in the end, isn't a kind of dance? Or so some would say; it's only the steps that change.
"Cranky," River says softly to her outstretched hand or the grass and hooves beyond, and Boukephalos snorts and tosses his head. But, with a wary and forbidding eye for Galadan, he does finally lower his great head to lip at River's fingers.
He's still shedding the last of his winter coat, and his black hair isn't as sleek as it will be later. It's still shaggy at chin and belly with the last remnants of winter. Even so, the war-stallion's muscles show clearly. But he snorts against River's palm, and investigates each finger to make sure she's not hiding any treats.
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"Cranky," River says softly to her outstretched hand or the grass and hooves beyond, and Boukephalos snorts and tosses his head. But, with a wary and forbidding eye for Galadan, he does finally lower his great head to lip at River's fingers.
He's still shedding the last of his winter coat, and his black hair isn't as sleek as it will be later. It's still shaggy at chin and belly with the last remnants of winter. Even so, the war-stallion's muscles show clearly. But he snorts against River's palm, and investigates each finger to make sure she's not hiding any treats.