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She must have visions of grandeur behind those void eyes of hers, he thought. That, or a recklessness they didn’t share. He was no chaser of storms, metaphorical or literal. He was simple and it was his simplicity that made him utterly unspectacular. It made Atalanta pry his heart from his chest and trample it – oozing blood, screaming as though it were an entirely different entity from his own. It cried and shrieked with far more despair than any victim of demons that snarled, spitted, and raked their claws across the unfortunate and the forsaken. ”Is your family your everything, little mare?” He asked dryly, without expression. ’It used to be mine.’ "Why do you chase adrenaline and danger if you seek to protect them? It would be unfortunate... if you died." He was so cryptic and morbid company. Perhaps they would see now why he'd be poor at entertaining him? Why they should leave him to his foul mood, a mood that didn't touch the chiseled contours of his impassive face. "I think, perhaps, that you may devastate yourself one day?"
What good was she if gobbled up and spat out like gristle by her whims? She would lead no one then, protect no one.
The other mare was a silent little nymph though seemed utterly unperturbed by him. Was there a reason she refrained from speaking then? Or did she simply happen upon them seeking the warmth of flesh, skin against skin, and hushed camaraderie that Revenant himself desired most days whether he wanted to admit it or not? He would not coax her to converse, would not goad her either. Instead, he turned his pale eyes back upon the blood red pool and thought of them all: all of Helovia's creatures, how they were all the same, and how they all bled red.
The Grey cared little about racial differences. He'd cared little about it before he'd met Ophelia in the Threshold and joined them. He did often ponder though, how she'd managed to catch him in her tendrils... and keep him when he'd convinced himself long before he would never belong anywhere again. That he was a shade, a drifter...
He could still drift within their grasp. They had gentle hands and slack leashes.
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