They are like a nest of giant, mutated ants, constantly in motion and thoroughly preoccupied. From the refuge of a new ragged grove of pines (this one closer to those unnerving guards by the valley’s entrance), he watches with a glazed, befuddled expression; both disturbed by their activity, yet also comprehensively enthralled. The hum of voices around him hangs like thick fog about his broad shoulders, only dimming through the dark hours after nightfall when many of them sleep; vanish into ridiculously dark and (no doubt) confined dens, carved into the side of the mountain. Jarring pain throbs through his skull, an ache stimulated by sensory overload, for the world he had come from was tranquil and vastly uncluttered – very much normal.

A group is gathered toward the middle of a wide grass-strewn flat; perhaps more than four (he sees only a chaos of limbs and colours across the space), stand conversing, between the glimmering blue lake to the north and the gaping gap in the mountain further south, maybe east – though he doesn’t glance that way because they (the statues), stand in eerie, silent ceremony. There is a winged one among them, the glossy sheen of feather reflects the sunlight beautifully and his sea-green eye is drawn in; it travels across the rolling curve of rump and spine, neck and skull, but cannot pick who owns which. They are all strange to behold, compared to the rooted silver and gold stain of his family (with wings). Noah cannot imagine standing among them, fitting as they appear to, so perfectly into the crowd.

Soon he grows tired, mentally.

The sun is drooping west of its pinnacle in the great blue yonder – noon has been and gone, and he knows Nora will soon stir (the tether of responsibility is equally inspiring and suffocating). Ears waver with uncertainty, apprehension stews within. He needs to pass by them, the group, to reach her tiny cave. Careful eyes return to their collective body, and chin lifts quickly, surprised, as he discovers that they are separating. While they are distracted, turning about, he slips from his cover and hastens by; at the same time exploring the revealed appearance of one or two strangers (Lord Rikyan and Toulouse he has met). The first is the pegasus: the hybrid, it seems. A distinct sharp point juts out of white upon the forehead (two others he overlooks), so this one does not share the same avian-type blood, he figures.

Noah is unsettled by the weapons brandished upon the faces of so many.

The slender face to catch his focus lastly, embodies almost as much feminine grace as his charge, Nora. With wings inconspicuously slung low (barely inches above the ground), he travels, but stunned momentarily by bold, glowing green set amid waves of soft crimson. Perhaps it might have been wiser to stop there, greet her... Alas he stumbles like a fool, catching the longest of his own quills beneath bold progression of a hind hoof. The feather is plucked clean from its bed, and though the stallion recovers quickly, he is mortified, and retreats north into another woody copse.

---

A good while later, as the sun sinks to touch a rugged horizon, Noah is grazing in solitude, in the same vicinity.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior