Of course ‘progress’ is probably an overstatement. The understanding between the delicate dove and her self-appointed minder, is more like dogged-determination against all odds, and reason; or just plain stupidity. They are like summer and winter, night and day, a fish - floundering beside water; the peculiar duo are not dissimilar to the stray whale calf he’d once discovered, stranded in the sunlight without reason for hope - only the poor creature had perished upon those scorching white sands, and Noah was more than unwilling to see his brittle charge today, suffer that same fate. Not on his watch. Not at all!

With the issue of trust and volatility (in regards to: he wasn’t going to eat her at least), more or less out of the way, it became rather apparent that their two opposite languages was cause for concern. Her feminine features seem to shift beneath a surge of discouragement and even he wonders disconcertedly, how they could possibly go about breaching that bothersome rampart. He offers her a reassuring grin all the same, still turning across densely feathered limbs - double the size of her own. Similar to the initial reaction when first he’d placed eyes upon her, there was a valorous strength of will driving him forward; a virile heart, fluttering hormones and undeniable attraction fed his stubborn-faced resilience.  

Her perfectly exotic jaws part after a moment of consideration (though pale eyes turn away), and his ears rest forward optimistically; his mind is trained upon her like a bloodhound to a scent. Relieved, he nods, and bright flaxen swings from the left side of his face to the right - “yes, follow!” Giant frame pauses long enough to elaborate, educate, “follow, we walk,” keeping it simple for the sake of that feeble confidence owning her. Again success fuels him, feeds ambition through his being, though he is curious about her native tongue also; wonderfully romantic syllables that blend together like poetry. How could he bring her to utter it: words which rolled off her tongue in a timbre of warmth, melodic sounds distinctly foreign and as enchanting as the ethereal quality she embodied.

“Walk…” he reiterates gently, resuming the slow amble which might see them further from that queer grinning mouth in the mountainside.

The valley had seemed without her, cold (no paradise), lonely and isolated; though the inhabitants around them were many, without conversation or company, the decent into doubt and insecurity had been swift. Now, anticipating the sound of fairy-footsteps behind, the silver and gold stallion is comparatively elated, with purpose and direction; his knees lift higher and his crest arches once more, its tall, vertical length. Everything seems so much brighter with her near. His eyes have already travelled forward, and they trace the winding line of the goat-track to the fork (he has walked it many times now). Should they follow the left branch, they will come upon his pine copse, the soft, honeyed grass she could dine on; to the right (and north), the freezing basin lake lays hidden behind a jut of hillside.

Turning his whiskered chin to the side, the stallion tempts another clash with that barrier. “Food?” he questions clearly, then promptly swings lips low to lip at the stringy grass beyond his hoof.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior