“You look like you could use some rest.” A sentiment far more objective than Caneo likes, though he casts a doubtful eye once over the narrow angles of his own body. Caught between an adult’s height and a child’s frame, he is like a sawhorse in comparison to Roland – all bones, the canvas wrapped too tight. He is accustomed to the sight, accustomed to the hungry stab of lean-bone legs and sunken eyes. He thinks of the desert again, the lidless eye of the oppressive sun. Something occurs to him then, some grain of truth springing brilliantly to mind.

        This place is different.

        He sees it not only in the trees but also in his new friend (are they friends?). There is no hunger in the other stallion’s eyes, though Caneo has long tried in vain to find it there. Not only the hunger of unkempt bones – but other things, things which recall the tang of blood. Perhaps this place adheres to other laws.

        Absently, one ear cocks back to paint his delicate features with a mild frown. He is tired; his stomach moves like a beast between his ribs. But no one has ever asked him if he needed rest – at least, not within his memory. It remains a suspicious query, though he tires of guessing about it. “You have nothing to fear from me.” The reassurance falls on a suspicious mind. Caneo waits, ears canting forward in anticipation of an answer to his question. Already, the sharp corners of his mind work toward the logical conclusion, but he hesitates, certain he finds himself walking into a trap – frustratingly unable to see its teeth.

        This Roland is strange, he decides upon hearing the answer. It sounds like eagerness underlying the speech, and Caneo cannot fathom why. Yet Roland cannot seem to understand even the need to ask why, and the youth merely turns over the last statement, tensing all the same when the other stallion appears ready to walk forward. For an instant, the silver skin tightens, certain at last of meeting some unwanted end – but nothing happens. They both remain still, quiet and completely unremarkable to any outside eye.

        “Hmm.” The noise is quiet, thoughtful and tinged with weariness. He thinks for a moment about running away, but the question of the stranger stands before him, impenetrable, and he wonders what awaits in the Aurora Basin. His stride is longer than Roland’s; he could most likely outrun the stallion, if pressed. And his body keens hungrily, this wire-taut fragile thing trembling all around him. “I’ll go with you then, I guess.” Even as he speaks he is not certain why, except something in the stranger is so warm... It calls to him as if he is all fluttering wings, no better than his wayward guide. This unknown thing is like a wound, demanding to be picked apart.

        The narrow skull turns north again, the blue eyes peering at a darkening sky over the trees. “I’ve nowhere else to go.” He shrugs, as if it is a thing of convenience, playing to his own vanity as, with a flick of his tail, he steps forward for the first time, closing by inches a distance he does not particularly wish to close between himself and the other stallion. He wonders for a moment if he ought to ask about it, but if they travel truly he will find out, anyway, and better maybe to see without any expectation of the view. He looks to the thief again, resigned if not entirely decisive, outwardly a benign scarecrow of a thing, easing at last through the door he stood in awe before only moments ago.