“Stop yelling for fucks sake.” The old stallion glares at the newcomer, ears pinned tightly to his head. He’s of the opinion that there is
entirely too much shouting in this herd; The leads yell at their members, the members yell at each other, and the
God of the northern territory yells at all of them, a myriad of shrieking, screeching voices piercing and echoing in the cold thinned air. He grimaces, made sensitive and irritable – more so than usual, if possible - by the constant auditory onslaught.
One salt and pepper brow rises as he takes in the yodeling oddity with already disparaging expectations. So many horns, he thinks, and so much smoke.
“What are you supposed to be?” He demands, accuses.
"The God of Pollution?" One corner of his mouth quirks up at this, the idea only laughable now that he's safely away from the booming voice of a true god, his fear assuaged by absurdity.
"Lord of Growths?" He continues,
"Patron Saint of-” But then he flounders, wit depleted.
"Fucking... eye blood." He finishes lamely, scowling at the other stallion as if this is somehow his fault.
Though the beast in front of him is clearly magical, so are many other Helovians, himself included, and as thin and bedraggled as the unicorn appears to be -
Pot, meet Kettle his companion titters at the back of his mind in garish cartoon relief, this being his favorite idiom and means of mocking his bonded - the old stallion does
not believe him to be godly, nor even respectable for the time being.
He glances around then, trained to believe that the
Reaper important figure heads of the herd will be close behind, keen to begin their own addresses of the newcomer, and more importantly, to cut off
his.
"Talk."
OOC //
@Boetius welcome, welcome
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![[Image: 56c616e54affc]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/56c616e54affc)