Awkwardness begins to dissipate, following the course of daylight into oblivion (for now). The wren (despite a lack of feathers, she twittered and chirped with all of the same gleefulness), is a veteran conversation keeper it seems and despite initial reservations, the silver and gold cannot help but feed off the seemingly endless flare of effervescence; the lead-like feeling of social inefficiency is beginning to bleed away. She is persistent, and Noah’s walls are weak. Perhaps his confidence is helped too, as the last of the horned-ones (at least those dwelling here), vanished. Many words pour from her thin, inky lips, though it is the question left lingering in the conclusion of quiet that calls for response. “Aye, an island,” he smiles quietly, softly and draws a long breath. “It’s just about everything you’d expect from paradise - warmth, sea and soft, powdery white sand. An old volcano sleeps in the centre and sweet grass feed on the fertile slopes… That’s about it, honestly.”

Pensively he sighs, quelling the forecast tide of raw memory as it surges; then he adds, “This isn’t like home…” Rattling nostrils guide long chiselled features through a broad gesturing arc, but the flimsy smile seems to hold. He shrugs those burly winged shoulders as though the homesickness might be shed away. Still she stands there, wrapt, as though spellbound, and Noah shifts restlessly across thick, brawny limbs. Vivid eyes close for a second, taking ease in the isolation and darkness, revelling in a private world of tranquillity; then suddenly the moment is lost...

Long coppery cups slew apart instantly, as from nowhere (he felt), his name rang forth on the wind, “Noah!” A torrent of adrenaline unleashes through his veins and the bright, colourful canvas of coat tingles and flinches visibly in response. There is no mistaking the fluid, eloquent sound of her voice, and though his consciousness reels in protest (the sweet spiral-horned mare waits as though with baited breath before him); he spins upon coiling, taught hindquarters to meet the darling dove. “Nora,” he coos across the distance, the frayed smile forming properly to warm his whole expression. Good decency is not lost as he drinks in the dainty figure of his charge, and he invites her to join them with long feathers unfolding in gesture; he shuffles a little backwards to allow her room. “Akumi,” the boyish note of his voice explains, and whiskers brazenly tempt towards the darkest mare’s shoulder.

The strange, hot musk upon her, riled to wake a deep, dormant desire and his eyes shuddered beneath binding lashes secondarily, before he pulled himself away. “My friend, Nora,” he murmurs heavily afterward, forcing to rest the reckless throb of his pounding heart. The growing weight of evening dulled the glint in his gaze as he turned it back to the splendour of the dove, but he said nothing, instead offering a tender smile of encouragement – he was yet to see her take on the chaos of social engagement, after all.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior