He follows Deimos, a ghost following the Reaper, the coward following courage as if bravery might rub off on him. A smile flits at his lips following these somewhat amusing thoughts; him, valiant, audacious, gallant? Never would he fit those heroic adjectives- and that he didn't entirely mind. It was his job in life to write, to record, to draw and paint, remember, sing and create ballads, poems, epics. Scholar, Deimos had called him. So scholar he was, weak of heart but clever of mind, deft of tongue and a slippery fiend. He liked the word, turning it around in his mind. It sounded much better than the Keeper of Memories, also known as géarron.

Why does he follow death today?

To answer- because where death walks, chaos is sure to follow, and so, naturally, stories will be woven, and songs will be need to be sung and memories will need to be kept, so they will not be forgotten. Not only this, but curiosity of which gnaws perpetually at his stomach, making his heart beat a little faster, his bones rattling subtly, making him a disaster waiting to happen. The General said he was born with it. Did his mother die? How many has he killed? How can he not be a god, when he can murder, slaughter, steal the light of life so easily? Deimos is a legend if Carnesîr has ever set eyes on one, but he does not speak, keeping the secrets inside the heart surrounded by the magic of death.

Eyes drift from the grim Reaper, settle on something he has heard of in legends. Lefirin, the horse-elves.

The lithe, slender unicorn steps towards the man with his eyes filled with awe. This is a being that is alive, a myth incarnated and robed in mortal flesh, with the hairless arms and chest of what His People had called elves. Those nubs of ears are not slender and pointed, as the stories went, but the face is flat and the... paws... no, what were they called? Hands. The hands were there, with the five, sausage-like fingers. Dark eyes and a dark mane, the sleek body of a well-muscled stallion. Male, then. Beside, the chest is flat, not curved with the breasts of a female. A frown creases the grullo's lips, his brow furrowing softly in thought. Hadn't the stories said they had two legs? This was an animal with six limbs. He had thought six limbs impossible, an anatomical flaw.

A stallion is leading the lefiri (lefirin being the plural.) He is red as blood with a horn of glass- no, two, one half-broken- and upon seeing him Carnesîr takes sudden, raw dislike which sets his blood boiling.

"He is lefiri, Deimos." The scholar murmurs, eyes not drifting from the strangely flat face. "An intelligent being of equine and elvish... parent age? Line age?"

Then he addresses the being itself with a nervous twitch of his ears. "Thought you were old mare's tale."