Finely chiseled audits clip sceptically when she fracture the silence; if there was relief reflecting upon dusky features they were too small to be seen, carefully masked by taciturn bones and mocking dead-man grin. A grunt is all he offers of acknowledgment as she apologize, carefully swallowing chastising words of lacking manners and the importance of proper conduct. The gargoyle is far from a poster boy when it come to such things - perhaps he should be more careful in hus judgment. He is young however, perhaps more so than the stern features and well-developed chassis would suggest, and while mature for his age there is still a good measure of youthful arrogance hiding behind hollow sockets, of undue pride and confidence more fit for a strider twice his age.

Perhaps another flaw is the tendency to forgive much too easily. Far from kind, the silver-backed dead-dancer contemplate the offer of solitude for some time, head rising into the force of cold winds with grinding jaws processing tasteless grasses in a never-ceasing hunt for nourishment. When he finally swallow and clear the maw to allow words room, it is with a shrug of swelling shoulders and impassive voice he deliver the verdict;

"Do as you wish."

Maybe it wasn't the passionate plead for company that she had wished for or expected. Perhaps the way the tall brute shifted stance, turning the side towards her and pawing the snow to expose a larger surface of dry vegetation was less than welcoming. But hey, at least he didn't charge at her, crown lowered and spears aimed blindly yet with lethal precision towards the chest, seeking to tear open skin, part flesh from bone and impale that crimson heart in thirst for death and disaster. It was something, at least, perhaps even a suggestion of progress.

Would it shock the painted mare to hear words come drifting on the wind, flat and indifferent even in their inquiring nature? Surely one such as he, dark and looming against the stormy sky, bone-clad and sinister, wouldn't care about a lone woman, unknown and unrelated with no ties neither of blood nor emotion... Yet came they did, a voice disembodied and fractured as the winter chill tried to tear it away, devour the bass tone queries and keep it from her - leaving them forever unanswered.

"Morir..." he was found replying, curtly. "You're... alone?"