Albrecht

The stallions ears relax and even swing partially away from the back of his maneless skull, his anger suddenly dropping from boil to simmer. The ebony healer seems unaffected by his venomous words, the rancor in them falling impotent against his impassively iron gaze. The elder wonders briefly if he's slow in the head, to have simply missed the litany of hostility in his tirade, but when he opens his mouth to recommence his roaring - and the old stallion is not convinced that he doesn't have some kind of hearing damage to think that he's actually talking at a normal volume right now - his answers are clear and concise, even concurring on several points. The old stallions opinion of him rises slightly, though not enough to silence his griping or soften his features completely.

"I did not see the Reaper galloping to my defense." He rumbles, half under his breath. "Nor did I see him rush to my aid when I returned, beaten and bleeding." The skin of his left shoulder twitches self-consciously, still hairless and puckered where the Songbird managed to close the grisly opening of his wound. The spastic movement disturbs his young companion and causes him to shift farther down his bondeds spine, folding his limbless, narrow body over the ridge of the stallions withers without fully waking from his doze, still predominantly focused on soaking up the warmth of the day - an admirable endeavor from his bondeds perspective, but then the healer jerks his attention back to the conversation, cutting off any praise he might have communicated.

"You know the asshole?" He blurts before the whole of the others response is absorbed. He'd certainly seemed to think he was somebody, but being a relative of the Reaper would certainly make sense, being such a peach of a boy and all. He snorts contemptuously. "Figures." And then asks, since neither had bothered to exchange contact information before separating, "What is his name?"

The black stallions calmness and quiet demeanor seems incongruent with his burly frame and booming voice, but dwelling on it, the elder wouldn't have guessed him a healer on first meeting either. He has the body of a warrior, strength and discipline evident in the way that he stands square on his hooves and stares unflinching into the eyes of his company. There's nothing inviting or warm about his presence, but his words continue to be measured and amiable, suggesting and then even offering his help. One tentative ear flicks forward at the elders poll.

"That would be... helpful." He murmurs, tone lightening as the fire of his irritable personality dwindles. "The Weaver has been helpful as well. He made this, He admits, leaving out the part where he stormed into the crafters cave demanding that he do so and nosing the wrap of sweat and dirt streaked cotton around the base of his neck, rustling the small amulet on its golden chain inside. "Though I think it could do with a wash." Nostrils wrinkling, he gives an amused grin. What better man-talk than gross smells and lack of hygiene?


OOC // @Mortuus Nox

"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'