Noitcerru

"A..hobbit?" The word doesn't fit right on the stallion's tongue, doesn't twist well into his voice so textured with that of foreign climes. The birdman can do little but watch as the little...hobbit sets to work with the branches; his head turns this way and that, ears wheeling as he attempts to follow the other's flight. He is lithe, showing the same adeptness of flight that he himself shows; yet to see aviation on such tiny wings is confusing and bewitching in equal measure to the mare below them both. For his eyes keep trained on her also, a never yielding sense of caution making his gaze flit from one to the other in case either were to get too close. The contrast between the pair could not be more obvious; she is so plainly of earth, but yet the other winged horse is, if one of his own kind, one he has never seen before.

Are all the feathered horses so small here? Is he to be one of a few giants? The irony of this compared to the withered legs that hang limply off his body would have made a smirk steal across his mouth, if it isn't for the stress he is under.

Stress that is rapidly clearing. Size does not seem to matter for clearing vegetation and already the stallion can stretch himself out further than he could before. And the blue vault is above him now, wide and empty and free of the serrated border of branches. Already Noitcerru is looking to the sky, soothed by its presence once more; the longing to feel the wind run across the feathers of his wings and whip across his mane stronger than ever. But the birdman's frustration is curbed, and he is not so bewitched by the return of his beloved sky not to once again look back at the smaller horse. "Thank you...?" There is an almost tangible question mark after his words, colouring the syllables with wary quizzicality. Why such kindness is coming his way is...suspect.

But the sky is calling. The light is unobscured by the branches now and the warmth runs a shiver down his haunches.  The Noitcerru of before was not the man the stallion wishes to be known as; he is almost coming to life again from the prison beneath the trees. The invitation is one he almost blindly follows but for the intervention of the mare, down on the ground. Her skepticism is obvious and cuts through the idyllic, heady return to the skies. There is a choice. Pools to the south. Waterfalls due north. Both speak of freedom and space and expanse, and beyond that Noitcerru has little in the way of preferences. At least, geographically. But the Dragon's Throat. The name appeals to him. Something boyish returns to him then, not so much a relic of the ancient past but a reminder of the more fragile present, and recognition of Pippigrin as one of his own trumps his curiosity of the horned Wessex below, if only slightly.

The judgement made, he casts a glance down to the mare. He nods once. "I do now, Wessex-from-the-Basin." As she turns to go he calls after her. "I am Noitcerru!" There is little more to say - not when the skies are so close now. With powerful beats of his wings the birdman rises, through the canopy and up into the open skies. It is like returning home. Joyous whinnies slip from his mouth easily as he tosses his head in abandon, gliding around Pippigrin in wild circles and sliding into whirling serpentines. A jagged smile crosses his mouth. This is his element; he can dance as he pleases and dance he does in response to once again returning to the air. "Where will we be going, small horse?" His voice rings out here, clearer and firmer than before; his gaze is bright as he focuses his attention on the little horse. "What is the Throat? Where are its dragons?" Ripe amusement colours his tone beyond an excitement that runs feverishly through his veins. It doesn't matter now where he goes, as long as he goes nowhere near the trap of the tree branches again.

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That would be great, Neve. ^^ At the moment I have no idea which herd he'll join (he's new to me too, as are the herds here onsite!) so some experience of the throat would be lovely if you have the time to take on another thread.
@Wessex @Pippigrin

run boy run