It seems ironic that the winged stallion is the happiest he has been since arriving in this valley of the horned-ones, now, right as he prepares to leave (even if he venture isn’t planned to be permanent). Aurora Basin, in every respect, is cold; the friendliest thus far met within the ominous mountain prison is the crimson fringed mare, Akumi – and she, effervescent, radiant, hails from borderlands still beyond here. There has been no trace of the Songbird (the breath of fresh air her presence represented), since the storm, and neither has Noah seen the likes of the silver horned one, Roland. Perhaps had any touched base through the last blur of weeks, the festering attitude towards them, their home, might have not have been so poor. As it stands, he feels as though Nora and himself, are out of place (and rather unwanted, given the state of initial relations); as dissimilar as their wings were from horns.

Perhaps there is a twinge of resentment forming for those insincere animals dwelling around him; he tries in earnest to be rational, and not tar all like them, with the same bitter brush.  

Still, on this day, nothing but perfect excitement reflects in his mood.

As those eager eyes settle their dance beneath a slowing veil of white to hone in upon the uninviting gap in the rock face, he finds (much to his surprise, only the full flavour of a curvy chocolate, vanilla rump, silken ribbons trailing along the dirt behind - she is quick to rise at his summons, however, from her hovel, and the scrabble of movement prompts him to avert his intrusively persistent gaze. Once or twice, the islander withholds the urge to swing forward, catch her - or prop, which ever need came about first, but his grubby-faced charge eventually made the turn around to meet him with a groggy expression.  

“Hey!” …he replies, lungs bursting forth the bright greeting that instantly swallowed the soft tender note of her own. From between the rounder feathers by his shoulder, careful teeth free her gift; a ritual offering for the dainty dove, which started in the beginning as grass to nourish her, but as the need grew less (along with the painfully sharp variations beneath her coat), he brought to her flowers instead. The one he drapes across the printed dust before her this time reminds him of home - the reef and its rainbow of interwoven colours. He admires it thoughtfully for a moment.

At the same time she offers those romantically poetic syllables that by now, he is used to - though only the establishment of morning from their midst, has been achieved - at least he hopes. For the sake of peace, lips curl into a gracious smile.

“You follow?” he asks a minute later, fidgeting, waiting for her to agree. Adrenaline lashes his sensibility, leading it astray, beckoning it into a wild battle of wills - it was not his ambition to startle her at all. Brilliant teal eyes invite her forward, away from the dingy mouth that lurked by her rear, and he shifts rearward to allow her breathing space; one of the first things learned was that the delicate princess preferred to control that bubble of space around her and often she slipped from its invisible line on her own accord (those moments fed his intrigue). His face turns after, lifts to view the blue dome, and the stallion rolls his muscular shoulders keenly.

Urgency begs hindquarters into action and fore hooves prance obligingly in front. He aims for the barren centre of the (wide) corridor - it was long enough to sustain a solid gallop - for lifting his weight was not so simple; she, undoubtedly, would rise like the fleet-footed wisp she was, and from a standstill (he fancied). Forward he marches, gathering speed quickly, revelling in the thundering beat of his upward-bound hooves. Vast wingspan opens, doubles, and feathers thud against the rushing air around him - it gathers beneath their magnificent length; ascending at last, he builds height slowly (it seems he has lost the condition which saw him initially arrive upon these shores). The stallion is not fashioned for swiftness, nor aerial agility - instead he turns a wide, motionless circle, gliding with perfect precision, searching for that updraft that will see him onto that famous old heavenly highway.

Exiting Basin

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior