He smiles at her mention of going to the Throat, he himself not the sort to so brazenly approach a land owned by a group of individuals unless directed there by his superiors or invited by those within, as he had been to the Edge by Mirage. That he had stayed in one place surprised even him, some days, mostly because he was not really made from the same material as the rest of the people in the Moon’s hold, and often felt like an outcast where he was truly a member of the council and seemingly well liked by most that knew him by name; it wasn’t a true affection, anyway, not with his secrets and the hidden way that he thinks, even as he unlearns the lessons burned into him in his youth and tries his best to become a denizen of peace rather than a creature of a defiled kingdom as Ricochet had been.

That she hasn’t been many other places is something they have in common, and he says as much in reply because he himself is not brave enough to go to the Throat and is unwilling to admit as much in front of the pretty lady. "I’ve really only seen the wilds, and not much at that," of course, in a few weeks, he will see the Falls – but that has not come to pass and so he has nothing in his mind but the images of the old, dark forest with the pool of rubies and the other miraculous places of natural creation that the Earth God had created for them, "and the shrines to the south, of course. I went as soon as I heard of them."

He does not tell of how that same God he so revered for creating the mountains and rivers and valleys had shaken the earth and chased him away that day. He has never told anyone. It is a bit too embarrassing to divulge even if it would make him feel better to hear a good, reasonable explanation for why it had happened other than that he was unworthy of a God’s ignorance, much less kindness, and deserved only wrath.

So is the guilt ridden mind of the young man, studiously dusting the skeletons in his closet to keep the others from noticing them stacked behind his carefully constructed guise of shyness and intelligence – the truth known only by a woman who was gone, dead as far as he knew.

As if she can feel his turn of thoughts and the sadness that begins to fill him where her praise had previously held him up, he looks to her as she lengthily makes her exit, her accent floating her pretty voice up to his ears and drawing him away from the dark waters that lap at the fringes of his conscious. It is only a matter of time until he is alone with his hypocrisy again, and as if she can sense this, too, she loiters in her goodbye, even reaches out to touch him.

He does not flinch, growing used to women and their desire to touch everything and everyone, but instead revels in the delicate way with which she does so, the flicker of surprise that lights her face in the realization that she has reached out to touch him – and it is mirrored in his own features as he takes notice of the fact that his own had extended to meet hers midway, a rather friendly gesture for two mostly strangers and an extremely uncommon one for the introverted stallion.

"It was my pleasure," he mumbles awkwardly as he retracts his nose, his mind hammering away in frantic wonder as to why it is he’d just done that and a cloud of butterflies swirling chaotically through his belly, "come by again if you need anything else." His deep voice is steady despite the riot going on inside him, the stag quite used to dealing with the frustrating and insane things that women do to him and the never ending wonder as to whether it is this way for all men. His father had never said a thing about it.

"Goodbye," he finishes while watching her go, the tangled mess of his thoughts writhing like a ball of snakes behind the innocent and almost emotionless expression that lines his simple face.

@[Sheba]