Firestone Hot Springs mare's milk

Jamukha's maw splits to a toothy smile upon a wake of iced words the horselord would have liked to tongue. His gaze does not linger, shifting back to the laughter of the gilded girl and returning his feet to the warm, cresting shallows.

This woman’s question is meant to tease, but he gives it a fair amount of consideration as he laps at too-briny waters.

“Easy and hard, these are concepts in marriage conditions. There is no idea of modesty on the steppe. On the road, I see women issue challenge— because she is made to be gentle like spring, with a mellifluous voice. She is ashamed of those things which makes her a woman and not a goddess. Pleasure. Lusting. Fornication," his mouth curls. "Steppe women do not have this. They lose their blood-veil early— and like every good mare they give it during long sprints,” a crude grin now as muscles press into rock and loosen the span of shoulders. Through the steam the woman's black and gold dances.

“You are not from this world,” he claims, and despite his many wanderings the nomad could not place her origin. “What is your language?”