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Equally, he does not ask her why she is here. The way she asked Are they from here? makes him believe she isn't native to this land. Few that he has met appear to be. Perhaps this is a land of strangers then. A refuge for the lost, or simply a holding place for those with no where else to be. He has yet to be impressed by anything other than it's drowning humidity.
He has not ventured south yet.
The white stallion does not ask himself why. Indeed, he does not question himself. The parts of his mind that might seek the future and consider the past lie near dormant, confined to near moments in time. It helps him keep moving, it helps him remain in the limbo he has put himself in, immune to the wounds of the past and the possibilities of the future. He is a marionette, drawn by the strings of an absent-minded puppeteer.
Carefully, as though he has some wariness of her, he meets her around the edge of the pool. He follows without falling behind, rather falling so his chest is even with her shoulder. The density of the forest would not allow much distance between them if he didn't want to be separated from her, but he allows the woods to come between them. It is not hard for him to keep pace. He doesn't speak again until they come to the clearing. His strides lengthen in the small, meadow-like space as he moves out into the sunlight with gliding steps. His coat shimmers and his eyes take on a distinctly lavender hue in the sudden spotlight of the sun. Seanan stops in the center of the clearing, as freely in the sun as he can be. He snorts, paws at the rich grass and soil, and kicks up his heels a bit as though shaking off the tension of the close quarters.
"There are too many new things to see, to seek out the familiar." When he comes to a rest he finally speaks, but even then he is not truly still. His weight shifts from ivory hoof to ivory hoof, not impatient but the restlessness of his blood moving in him. It is almost as if there is some music on the wind that only he can hear, and it moves his body without his conscious intervention. The words are true in a sense but they are shallow. They do not touch the breadth of reasoning beneath.
"What is it like where you come from?" A question for a question. It is only fair.
@Lyanna
He has not ventured south yet.
The white stallion does not ask himself why. Indeed, he does not question himself. The parts of his mind that might seek the future and consider the past lie near dormant, confined to near moments in time. It helps him keep moving, it helps him remain in the limbo he has put himself in, immune to the wounds of the past and the possibilities of the future. He is a marionette, drawn by the strings of an absent-minded puppeteer.
Carefully, as though he has some wariness of her, he meets her around the edge of the pool. He follows without falling behind, rather falling so his chest is even with her shoulder. The density of the forest would not allow much distance between them if he didn't want to be separated from her, but he allows the woods to come between them. It is not hard for him to keep pace. He doesn't speak again until they come to the clearing. His strides lengthen in the small, meadow-like space as he moves out into the sunlight with gliding steps. His coat shimmers and his eyes take on a distinctly lavender hue in the sudden spotlight of the sun. Seanan stops in the center of the clearing, as freely in the sun as he can be. He snorts, paws at the rich grass and soil, and kicks up his heels a bit as though shaking off the tension of the close quarters.
"There are too many new things to see, to seek out the familiar." When he comes to a rest he finally speaks, but even then he is not truly still. His weight shifts from ivory hoof to ivory hoof, not impatient but the restlessness of his blood moving in him. It is almost as if there is some music on the wind that only he can hear, and it moves his body without his conscious intervention. The words are true in a sense but they are shallow. They do not touch the breadth of reasoning beneath.
"What is it like where you come from?" A question for a question. It is only fair.
@Lyanna
All interactions are go, short of death and permanent crippling.
