Out of the frying pan and into the fire seemed to be a fitting descriptor for the boy’s mood, though Roland had no way of telling just what went on behind his troubled eyes. From the brief dance of steps to one side, Roland thought he might be nervous. The rough laugh punctuating the stallion’s question was a familiar sound to his ears. It was a humorless noise, and he himself had spoken with the same tremble to his vocals many times before. Perhaps the boy was exasperated, or irked in some way by the Thief’s presence or the twilit forest around them. But why? Why what? Roland tilted his head to the side, fixing the stallion with a bewildered look. Was he truly confused as to why shelter would be offered to one who looked as he did, on the verge of collapsing against the pressure of the cool evening wind? “You look like you could use some rest,” he supplied at long last, not unkindly.

The boy gave his name finally, and extended a courteous bow to the Thief. Roland retaliated with a curl of his own neck, tucking chin to chest before giving Caneo a pleased look and a heartfelt, “likewise.” The stallion was polite at least, not some savage caught between boy and manhood, wandering the edge of the dusky forest. A smile played upon his dark lips then, pursued by his meek attempt at a joke. At least, Roland hoped it was meant to be a joke.

He was left puzzling over the stallion’s remark for a few moments, and when realization finally dawned upon him he laughed blithely. The darkness must be painting him to be some creature he was not; something to be feared, or at the very least, wary of. In truth, he was far more often docile than dangerous. Nonetheless, he returned Caneo’s hesitant grin, tail lashing against his hocks. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured the boy, pouring as much sincerity as he could fit into the few words. The uncertainty in the silver’s stance pained him, for Roland would not let any harm befall the wanderer while he stood with him. Just as a good soldier fights only when it is necessary, a good thief only steals when he must. Tonight, he was not in search of pockets to pick or trinkets to pilfer.

Amusement was short lived, quelled by the question following timidly on the heels of the boy’s fading levity. The Thief frowned once again, feeling a stab of sympathy in his chest, a thorny sort of anguish that he hadn’t felt since he’d cared for Sia. “Yes,” he intoned gently, making as if to move closer and then abruptly thinking better of it. “Yes, of course. Anything you need, we will provide it to the best of our abilities.”