Noitcerru

The wind ripples across cocoa brown feathers as the stallion ducks and dives and wheels and whirls in time with the beat of his heart. Any eyes on him are totally ignored, so deep is he in his own form of oblivion. Once again he is free - free to go where he wishes, to fly where he wants and to feel the breeze whip across his face. There is little more to life than this, surely. Already the object of his stress is so far away, the dim branches of the forest that had him so snared tiny beneath his hanging hooves; already he feels lighter, as if a physical burden weighing down on each broad pinion has been removed, invisible shackles cast aside for the freedom of movement that he is willing to do almost anything for. No, not almost anything - anything at all. Anything under the sun and anything above it too, just for the pleasure of the open sky.

And the birdman is circling, too, the smaller stallion that was good enough to provide him this. The frustration is clearing to something akin to peace - something, for Noitcerru can never be at peace, never fully - and there is only one male to thank for that. Appreciation shines in his eyes to this little hobbit, this man who freed him from the branched confines of the trees. He expects to hear some sort of deal now, a condition for the other pegasus' actions. He did not have to free him, to clear the vegetation in his path, and the birdman has to icily consider the cost for this kindness. But yet there appears to be...none. The hobbit does nothing nor presses him for repayment. Noitcerru does not slow his pace; if anything he flies faster in the wake of this unexpected, suspicious development, weak limbs limply hanging below the powerful wings that allow his flight.

Limbs that are becoming increasingly obvious. The little grey man - so small; Noitcerru has barely seen his kind before, and with those peculiar ram-like horns - is watching him and he has lived long enough to know where his gaze lands without looking. He looks anyway, and as he slows to gentle circles and the controlled flight that is reined back from the dizzy ecstatic feeling of being back in the air his ears flatten. The ecstasy is draining now, replaced with the dull reality he takes so much effort to avoid. Gazes towards his legs that he so often forgets during flight are unwelcome and he bristles defensively. "Noitcerru," he repeats. He speaks clearly, and loudly to accommodate the distance between them. The name rolls off his tongue but his nostrils flare as he circles, wings casting dark shadows on the top of the trees below. His legs attempt to coil further into his body as much as they can as though they are attempting to disappear, although the muscles cramp uncomfortably.

This hobbit is far more conversational than he expects, and the picture he paints of the land he hails from is enough to spur the birdman on from what is a thorny, yet unspoken of, subject. Instead he talks of his homeland and Noitcerru listens intently, wheeling around in closer circles, raptor-like as his fixes his attention on the other stallion. The tale he spins is fascinating but just three words encourage him on more than any other: and some not. Noitcerru glances to the smaller man, expecting there to be an explanation; there is none. His mind descends on this idea. Winged and grounded living together? Coexisting? It is not so wholly alien that he has not heard of it before, but to be taken to such a place is different from merely hearing about it. Nor has he ever seen a dragon up close, let alone several.  

Wariness mingles with a risk taking urge to try in his mind; it does not take long for his curiosity to win out despite the better urgings of reason and the fear of the unknown. So when the small stallion at his side cries out in stirring homage to the land from which he hails a mimic of the hobbit's cry echoes through the air moments later, throwing caution to the wind with a loud squeal: "To the Throat!"

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@Pippigrin - Thank you!

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