Soaking idly in the last rich light that the afternoon’s sinking sun had to offer, the winged-stallion (one of too few in these northern parts, he feels), is altogether oblivious that another of fair gender approaches. It has become rather a ritual for him this last week, mindless afternoons spent feeding ravenous hunger on the sweet basin grass - though the insatiable emptiness that gnaws is least of all lack of food. Within, he pines terribly for the warmth of paradise, of a distant island home and the faces waiting their upon it. Stubborn worry too, nags like a toothache; restless shadows wander the rolling vale, falling from each peak and tree, teasing memory of a certain savage feline to stir; paranoia rouses burning through the scar. He avoids them, the world, seeking solitude until the moon comes to spread ink sanctuary through the land. Through the night  quiet he feels safest.

It is only as the voice of the stranger sings forth to meet his lazy ears that he discovers her there and golden cups waver to the tune of rising indecision in his core. All at once, the pulse in his mind quickens, thunders, and dense feathers adjust against each flank, pinning nearer, thinner. She has paused a respectful distance from him - he appreciates the courtesy, though lean long legs beneath seem reluctant to spare the saved distance; closer to him the charcoal girl travels, speaking too, even before a response is given. Briefly his bewildered eyes touch her own glistening green gaze (they are bright, bold and friendly - inviting), but he cannot resist the urge to look up instead, to examine the spiralling horn between them. Was she another of his herd-mates here?

Then it hits him; she was one of the crowd he’d been studying earlier in the day.

As seconds tick by, he stands before her dumbfounded, struggling to drag any sort of retort from the tangle of thoughts to his tongue. “Uh,” he begins, repointing focus to the golden quill in her tail, “keep it…” he tells her, soft masculine tone, insecure and unsure. Try as he might, he cannot fathom why she’d wear it, the feather he’d discard (rather plucked), and left behind. Conversation has been harder in recent times, though all thus far met have deserved a little more credit than they had been allowed; it is because of this, her obviously sweet approach, that his features soften finally. “Really, I’d like you to have it,” he repeats more tenderly, even pulling a smile across the bland discomfort which had been. “I’m Noah.” No other had actually sought his company alone in this land of walls and frost - aside from the coloured dove over whom he stood guard (of course).

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior