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Morrigan was feeling frustrated, and she did not approve.

Sure, it was typical for frustration to come part and parcel with unhappiness, but Morrigan didn't like to give into frustration. Frustration was a sign that things weren't going how they should, that something was confusing or perplexing or otherwise...well, frustrating! She didn't often feel this way; usually, her mind was alive with focus. Nothing was beyond her; nothing couldn't be solved by applying her brain, her creative spirit, and a good amount of elbow grease.

The problem, ironically, was that she didn't have anything to apply that problem-solving genius TO! She had recently finished her masterwork, the broken limbed-tree she'd decorated feathers, flowers, bones, blood, rocks, and other aesthetically pleasing and contrary elements. She had dubbed this masterwork 'Broken Beauty' and felt a rush of satisfaction...which had quickly tapered out. She'd been working on the tree project for weeks; it had consumed her, body and spirit. Now that it was over, she was feeling unexpectedly empty.

She hated feeling empty.

Though this wasn't the first time she'd gone through this, of course. She'd considered herself an artist from very early on, and once in a while she'd had a gap between finishing a project and starting another. But she'd never had one last as long as this, and that was starting to grate on her. Everything she looked at, everything she considered, was quickly rejected; each new rejection on exacerbated her frustration. If she didn't find something interesting soon, she didn't know what she'd do!

Fuming, the mare had stalked her way along through the trees, her sharp gaze examing every tree, every root, every flower for the tiniest glimmer of inspiration. It didn't need to be much. Just something, something...

It was the pink that first caught her attention, the swirling pattern of pink against the dark backdrop of something. She wasn't particularly fond of pink, but she wasn't anti-pink, either; in the right light, in the right setting...with the right inspiration...

Just like that, her attention was caught. She stopped with such suddenness that it was almost as if she'd run into a wall. A lesser mare would have fallen, but not Morrigan; at once, her four sets of wings flared out, balancing and counter balancing the mare as she looked through the surrounding branches at the pinkness. That was good for a start, but she really needed a better look. With as much suddenness as she'd stopped, she pushed forward through the shrubs to study the pinkness, up close and personally. What it was, or who it was, didn't matter; for the first time in weeks, Morrigan was feeling the euphoria of creative inspiration and she wasn't about to let that get away!

As she broke through the protective branches, Morrigan quickly realized that the pinkness was a stallion, or a design element of a stallion. However, that detail was merely that; a detail. The pink could have been a stallion or a mare, a flowering shrub, an odd cloud formation; the specifics were immaterial, the aesthetics, everything. The fact that she might be intruding on the stallion's privacy, overstepping the boundaries of his personal space, or otherwise acting in manner outside of generally accepted politeness meant nothing to her; after all, it wasn't like she was interested in him for his Soquili-ness!

This fact was made rapidly clear when he began speaking. She frowned, dropping on front wing to gently caress the small knife she wore tucked into a brightly beaded garter on one of her forelegs. Talking. Moving. Changing the distribution of the colors? Though she did rather like the pinkness in motion, against the dark nothingness of the stallion's base coat, the pink seemed almost alive, a swirling, mysterious, unseen creature.

Though there was no way she'd be able to properly get a feel for it if the stallion went on trying to distract. Narrowing her eyes, for one quick moment she locked her gaze on his. "Don't talk." Nice, simple, and to the point! Satisfied that she'd made her point, she resumed her intense study of the stallion and his markings, blissfully ignorant of any social niceties she was trampling upon. Talking was a distraction. Manners were a distraction. EVERYTHING was a distraction right now, except for this fascinating pinkness.

And the question was, what was she to do with it?

If Morrigan was able to read thoughts, she might have been amused by the kinky angle the stallion's mind immediately took at her entrance. Or perhaps she would have been offended, or disgusted. Maybe she would have been intrigued. One thing was certain, though; she was NOT able to read thoughts, so her reaction to Nat's would have to remain a mystery. Though that suggested that she WOULD have a reaction. Given her current interest in his pattern and only his pattern, the stallion was already registering more as a concept than a creature; when she had her mind on something, few other things would actually register with her.

Things like words.

As it was, her curt command got the desired results; at once, the stallion stopped moving and stood rigidly still. A self-satisfied smile curled her lips at the sight; she did so love it when things cooperated with her! Creating was hard; it took a great deal of mental and physical exertion. When something caught her attention, it was best for everything (and everyone) involved to let her satisfy her curiosity right away.

So although Morrigan was pleased to have the stallion standing still, she wasn't about to waste time thanking him for it. Instead, she moved closer, her eyes drinking in the swirls and curves of the stallion's markings. Without care for what he might be thinking or what he might regard as personal space, she stepped up right next to him, reaching out to his markings with the brightly colored tips of her wings. In a soft, excited tone, she murmured to herself, "Such vibrant animation, such unbridled vigor; it's like an expression of primal excitement! And pink...pink is good. Pink is saying that there is lightheatedness, fun...but with a fire within. Yes, pink and orange. Pink and orange curls..."

Without stopping her muttering, Morrigan began to make her way around Nat in a slow circle, taking note of how the marking wound their way around the stallions limbs and torso. From one angle, they looked like smoke plumes; from another, it was more like amoebas. Or maybe it was psychedelic eyeballs? "Perhaps a dirt etching...or maybe some colored mud...yes...I think it needs something liquid to indicate that sense of motion...but is a dark background ideal? Should there be other colors in it? Maybe something softer and more muted, to contrast with the boldness of the pinks and oranges..."

Cocking her head to one side, she stepped back away from Nat, looking at him head-on. Yes, she liked this. It would need some interpretation, but she liked this. Nodding in her self-satisfied way, she said in a louder, more communicative tone, "This will do. I like this. I can work with this."