Though the young buck noted a slight alteration in the mare's demeanor, perhaps a slip of nervousness, he hadn't the faintest clue that he was the cause of it. How could he be? He was just a shy and unassuming young stallion; he'd never had such a profound effect on anyone before.

His tail waved anxiously as he listened to the mare's simple reply. She seemed to be growing more polite, or perhaps simply more gentle on account of his obvious insecurities, by the minute. Though ashamed that his actions had forced her to modify her attitude, he was admittedly thankful. Had Zandora maintained the cold he'd first seen in her, he wasn't sure how well he'd be able to respond.

It was especially when she asked him a question, that fateful one he'd never expected, that he was relieved by her turn to kindness. Her interest in him was both intriguing and intimidating; he so rarely talked about himself, what was he to say now? But he knew he had to answer, and do so directly and truthfully. That was just what he had been taught.

He lifted his heavy black gaze just in time to see the raise of Zandora's lips (was that a smile?) and the searching look on her face. She really did want to know about him; he was shocked.

Ashamin swallowed and shuffled his forehooves, stepping on them lightly and letting them scrape across the cold. "I... I come from a cold valley," he began, "one much like this. I lived there with my father for my entire life, but--"

A somber silence overtook him. It was almost too difficult to say, but no, he knew he had to. He continued with a turn of his face, watching the distance as if he was unable to face another in the admission of his father's death--as if it had been his fault.

"My father, he raised me. And he just recently fell to faith. I came to Helovia on my own, seeking somewhere," he paused for a mere second, hummed quietly as if searching for a word, and then went on: "somewhere I can start again, I think." And with that he turned back to the mare, his deep charcoal pits looking over her curiousity. Had he satisfied her? He felt strange, telling her so much (for him, that was more than usual), but she had asked, oddly enough, and he hadn't the ill-manners to ignore the question. Just as he hadn't the ill-manners to not return it.

Shyly, Ashamin stepped forward and to the right, tilting his head and mimicking his company's thirst for knowledge about the other. "And you... what is your story, Zandora?" His question marked the conclusion of his own, depressingly short tale.

Was there really so little to his life?

[[@[Zandora]]]

Ashamin