The monotony of the day is broken with the arrival of something in his personal space, and the child has a particularly large space he considers his, often fluctuating with his emotions. Some days he welcomes the company, revels in it and frolicks and other days he'd rather be the rolling storm, unapproachable by all. His rain doesn't seem to put off whatever sleek creature is spying him from a little way off, pupilless eyes gave it a curious if not cynical glance before his gazed moved back toward the oasis. Whatever it is, he's not particularly interested in it at that moment, on another day he might have stopped to give it some attention, but today isn't that day.


Or so he thought, until something compelled him to really look at the creature. Really look, like he had when he had searched the Riptide Isles with the Giantess, and what he found staring back sent a chill down his spine. Is it dead? It smells dead, the air is thick with it, musty and old. He doesn't want to admit to himself that he just might be scared of the undead stag-creature. Whatever it really is, he can clearly picture it stalking the night, blank sockets peering through the dim moonlight, the final thing it's quarry saw before the abyss. The thought caused his nostrils to quiver, and his muscles to reflexively tense. Part of him wanted to get to his feet and slink away, before it had any idea's on what to do to the young tribrid to pass the time, a much louder voice commanded him to stay put and wait, to flee makes to you prey, and he's not some tasty morsel on the way to a feast.

It's not too long before another decides to show up, and this time it's a mare. With a horn made of stained glass and a pelt draped in autumn champagne, her eyes the colour of the ocean after a storm. She suits the dunes, the boy thought, like a desert flower effortlessly at home in such a hostile environment — blooming where all others would wilt. Her presence is enough to pull his large eyes away from the creature, wings pulled firmly back to his sides as she came closer. The mare looked at him as though she held some concern for his well being, that his lonesome form against the background of sand and grasses worries her. It's more than his carers do, who peer at him and then return to whatever is more important or utter some half-assed words as a kind of pitiful balm for his volatile emotions. "I'm fine." He responded, the tone of his voice betraying the words, they tell that he's bitter somewhere down in that small chest of his and the wetness of his tongue may as well be acid.

She asked where his ma is, and small ears pressed back against his poll as a stab of pain jabs at his heart. Gone, vanished, a ghost on the spring wind, they'd all be correct and apt replies to the champagne mare and her creepy companion — he must be a companion, because who could stand to be near a creature who reeked of decay like that? "She's not here, she's not been here for awhile." He mumbled after a long pause, a deliberate pause as he had mulled over whether to tell her. He placed a deliberate stress on the word awhile, hoping that she might figure out just how heavy the word is, and how far it stretches. She's the first that's actively bothered with him, and there's a small glimmer in him which shines for her to stay. It'd be nice to have company.


"What's your name?" He finally asked, another glance stolen toward her ghastly companion to see if he had advanced closer. "And what is that?"

"Talk."