"Do you have a name?" Has he really forgotten to give it? Caneo hesitates, aware now of his manners slipping. Curiosity and imagination have him in their teeth; he struggles now to break away. And how does conversation work? And what does he have to prove, really? Caneo is nothing more than a ghost, perhaps residing in the memories of few. "Yes," he says at first. He is aware of her eyes but not the same way he was made aware of Ampere's, or even of Essetia's. Ghost's gaze is subtle - or she doesn't care. He won't know which for a long time, though, if he ever does, because Caneo doubts she will come out and say it. He begins to forget that he wants to look impressive. He dips his head a bit instead. "Caneo." Now he feels strange giving it away for free so often. He thinks of being known and begins to itch. How do the others bear it?

        But Ghost changes the subject back to Essetia, and though visibly he is the same creature he has been since this conversation's bizarre beginning, inwardly Caneo relaxes. Essetia is safe like the sound of wind through grass. He tries to recall what she's told him, but he remembers little. It seemed their conversation revolved more around themselves than any greater purpose. "We take things," he offers, without inflection. In the darkness, perhaps the hunger of his shape fails to come across so clearly as it does in day, but phrased that way the fit between Caneo and his chosen occupation seems predestined.

        He's quiet again as she confirms his assumption, though her next remark draws from Caneo an expression of honest surprise, ears twitching upright. "Don't you like it?" he wonders aloud. But his gaze travels swiftly over the just-visible sword cresting her brow, over the wolf at her side, and he wonders if maybe she's just certain. His head cocks at the next words, curiosity bright in his gaze, though behind it he's all roiling confusion. Be careful of angering the other herds. Why? Wasn't almost everybody in the Dragon's Throat made to fight? Did they train just in case? The absurd stupidity of such wasted effort strikes Caneo mute for a long time - long enough for Ghost to finish speaking. Then his tail twitches, and he wants to be belligerant, though he isn't sure exactly what he wants to say. Something like - what the hell is the point of a warrior herd if it doesn't make war? Or like - why are you afraid of pissing off anyone else?

        But Caneo swallows, and waits for his tongue to sweeten. "I don't want to fight," he says at last. In his memory is a chorus of voices ringing over water like the lake at his back. In his memory is the brutality of those who give their hearts to war. And he hates it, with every fiber of his heart; hates the idea of murder in the name of anything. Caneo snorts. He clearly isn't built for war, though the sheer endurance of his body says he might make a place there, if he is tenacious. He strayed from that place a long time ago, and this other road was cemented the moment Roland greeted him at the forest's edge. "You make spying sound pretty boring, though," he admits, head cocked. "Why do you do it?"