The sight of another pulls him up short. His heart still pounds, but he swallows the second cry creeping up his throat and takes a shuddering breath. Even so, he's disoriented enough that the only thing he blurts in response to her greeting is, "What?"
Starved for company and attention, he's become more suspicious than blindly welcoming. Whatever he may want, whatever he may need, he reflexively sees poison in it - reads irony in kindness, thinks humor comes at his expense. Normally, this doesn't warrant a reaction. The good opinion of others has never been a luxury he can afford. But here, pinned between weeks of solitude and the all-damned bird (gone now, maybe; he isn't about to provoke it by looking), he's entering this encounter with raw nerves.
So whatever her intentions are, whatever she's thinking when she runs her eyes over him in appraisal, he assumes the worst. He stares sullenly back, matching her look-for-look. Her equineness is not so remarkable to him. Horns and wings, though he has heard tell of them, belong to anomalies. He would never guess they'd banded together, made nations.
As for the bloody spatter on her forelimb, he hopes the color and pattern is a coincidence, not the mark of some prophecy or punishment. Not that bloodied hooves are so strange and terrible to him, but he doesn't like magic. More than that, he doesn't care for the thought of a land where horses wear legacies or destinies on their bodies. He knows very well how inescapable those things are. He doesn't need to carry a reminder on his skin.
The brindled mare asks how long he's been travelling and his gaze returns to her face. He knows the exact count - months, days, hours to the time he crossed into the stony seabed that bordered his old homeland. Somehow, the number seems private. He swallows, works his jaw. "A long time." Then, eyes darkening somewhat in suspicion, he adds, "Why? Why does it matter?"
Those same eyes dodge hers when she mentions them and he sidles a bit, more aware of scrutiny than the shared trait. "They're fine." There's a steely emphasis on the word fine, because he thinks there's something backhanded in her words. The joke escapes him entirely. In the rear of his mind, he's aware that she may simply be toying with him, and will leave as soon as she sees he's a poor playmate. It's something he ran into when roaming the nomadic lands.
"What are you looking at?" He asks, voice hardly more than a murmur but full of warm hostility. But of course, she's looking at him (hornless, wingless - well, what else should he be?). Tunguska abandons his fidgeting and takes a step towards her, more for the sake of posturing than anything, as though he can push her brazen assessment away simply by brandishing himself. "What do you want?"
T U N G U S K A
maybe tomorrow the good lord will take you away |
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