The other colt seems relaxed, casual. That puts Arakh at ease, too, because even though he was the one to approach, that does not mean he wasn't wary about the possibility of danger. Despite his bravado and bolshy attitude, the calf does get afraid. Even moreso now he hasn't got his father around to fight away the nightmares, to crush the demons that maraud inside his mind. He knows how dark and miserable the world is; he knows that nothing is sacred, nothing is safe. If Death can take even the Wildfire, then it can certainly take lowly, powerless Arakh.

But he senses that he has nothing to fear from this colt. The other boy appears friendly, and offers his name freely. Mathèo. There's the hint of an accent in that voice, but an accent quite unlike the gruff Dothraki one that Arakh possesses. It is...soft, lilting, beautiful, not rough, harsh and guttural. "Arakh," he introduces in turn, giving a listless flick of his tail. Normally the announcement of his name would give him cause to parade an arrogant swagger - he is sword, he is the son of strength itself - but his mood is too low for him to summon any sort of ego. He simply says it, his voice a poor mask for the agony that rages inside.

Do you live here? The lad's eyes widen as he glances around, imagining what it would be like to live here. No grass, no light, no company - that's a recipe for even more depression than he's currently got! "No, Arakh live in World's Edge herd. Lots of trees and grass. No caves." He can't help yearning for the Throat, though, the deserts and dunes where his father taught him to fly. Everything about the Dragon's Throat reminds him of Gaucho, and he wants to be near as much of Gaucho as he possibly can. The Edge is beautiful in its own way, and his adored mother and sister are there, but they are the only ties Arakh has to the place. His heart, his soul, belong to the Throat.

He realises that his melancholy gaze has drifted sadly to the floor, and quickly lifts it again to look at the other colt. "Where Mathèo live?" If he was more alert, his senses not numbed by sorrow, perhaps Arakh would detect the beloved Throat-smell on Mathèo. As it is, he is blissfully unaware of the stranger's home.