The water is pure. Caneo’s ears tilt back as doubt chases trust through his mind. He thinks briefly of dry lakebeds, of white dust hanging in the air. Perhaps those places were like this ocean, once. Perhaps Helovia is what a kingdom looks like in good health.

        Perhaps that is why he feels so out of place.

        He is quiet still as Roland speaks. A small part of him enjoys the low noise of the thief’s voice, but the words themselves... Did Caneo wish to hear something different? Some plea, or a demand? He turns slowly to blink at the older stallion once more, his expression blank, his blue eyes empty as the sky has ever been, emptier by far than the sea roaring in the background. “I am not happy,” he agrees, but he knows of nowhere to find such a feeling. Perhaps he knew joy when he first arrived. He certainly knew hope, at least – but time has seen it wither and he knows of no way to serve a herd, no way to find joy in the company of those like him – and not.

        Roland asks a question, and Caneo answers with a brief shake of his narrow head. “No.” He has never known where he is going – where he wants to go. “I’m used to wandering,” he adds, admitting briefly to his life before, the only life he’s ever really known. His feet have seen so many miles already – perhaps he was foolish to think they might be happy stagnant in the north. Helovia is full of secrets and reasons he cannot yet fathom. “Why do you stay with the Aurora Basin?” he wonders quietly. Perhaps it is too personal a question; blue eyes flicker warily for an instant, ready to draw away should some hidden temper rear at him.

        It is in this moment of wariness, as his attention narrows, Caneo notices a flash of movement further down the beach, past Roland’s shoulder. It is something pale as moonlight, pale like the silver boy but at the same time – nothing like either unicorn at all. He blinks, curiosity flickering through his eyes, twisting too soon into a frown as he steps back, his head high, his long legs quite prepared to run.

        It is a strange, thin, little creature, its legs like matchsticks, and it stands only on the back two, yet it doesn’t seem about to fall over. Perhaps that is why Caneo lingers still. Or perhaps he is caught by the sound of the voice – that voice like the low rushing of small waves – asking him where they are. The tension in his limb draws down and quiets, but he does not answer. He looks to Roland instead, instinct perhaps instructing him to find a good example in the older stallion. Or maybe he merely wonders if Roland knows this type of creature; if he is overreacting again. He cannot know. And so he waits.