In that moment, as more are drawn in by the spectacle of pretty lights in the blackness (they quickly fill each remaining gap in the half-circle of bodies), insecurity’s merciless teeth sink with mischievous intent into the fragility of his newly formed confidence, his throbbing sense of masculinity; it whispers wickedly against that bond freshly forged, which he would guard with all of the fury a mother might her babe. The dove lies a warm cheek against the hot, bristling contour of his throat, and the crest above rises into proud arch beneath a rippling cascade of long flaxen mane; simultaneously, one wing slips free, rising above the shy darling like a dim, feathered awning in the night, the other peels away from the steamy flank below and flares sidewards ever so slightly (to enhance his breadth).

All the while, he watches the tiny, chirping, alien-equids, with a carefully curious eye, marvelling too at the enormous manner of their transport - the curved surface at it’s top glistened, like a dulled version of the winking water lapping around its feet. Despite the darkness, Noah is able to discern the shift of each face as one question rises from the group surrounding, and then another. There is little reason for him to direct one of his own - though he was entirely lost for words regardless, and was contented enough to rest in quiet shadow with Nora; though they appeared rather amicable, he had witnessed enough skewed personalities in Helovia to maintain vigilance. Betraying not whether they understood the tongue of the land upon which they’d arrived, the queer, ill-constructed creatures simply blinked their many eyes in response.

Somewhere ahead, a glittering threesome of winged insects - butterflies - briefly distracted his focus.

At last one of the four step slightly from the gentle glow of their huddle, and coughs (perhaps, it was a strange sound). Golden ears snap forward to listen as a chorus of muffled encouragement follows the  greeting offered, and breath snags in his throat when the little being reveals the meaning of their arrival; at the same time his jawline jerks, before an incredulous glance sways by the dove at his side. As the solo visitor proceeds to request information about the various regions of Helovia and one of the many gathered volunteers the first sample, Noah finds himself intrigued; for his knowledge of this immeasurable countryside is very limited.

The butterflies still flutter in place, and a voice lifts as though from their position; it is feminine, as delicate as brittle dawn light, and it describes the different races of this land. Another ignites, sweet and girlish, though equally bold and inspired. It speaks of a place called Dragon’s Throat, and thought can’t help but sweep back to the recent hours, perhaps days, spent in the molten belly of the earth - this easily could have been such a dragon. However that which the child details, creates a far lovelier visualisation than the murky, stagnant, stone-walled cave they had bedded in - perfect indeed. The brilliant note of the voice tapers and another sings forth, delivering words that strike a chord, for he has learned already about World’s Edge. It is hard to find the source through the gloom, the countless heads within it, but he is sure enough that it isn’t Amaris (the ferocious-looking woman who he feels strangely drawn to).

Others follow with further information about the southern desert (they seem to represent a proud, confident kin), and Noah waits in curious, pensive silence until the last (he feels), has spoken. Though he stands behind others, there is little reason to lift his voice terribly, for the night around them seems empty; the silver and gold draws a breath and his sides heave with deliberation. "I’m Noah. Nora and I come from the north, Aurora Basin they call it…" There are few positive experiences for him to draw upon so his pause to consider is brief. "It’s colder than everywhere else we’ve been. It's surrounded by dreadful, impassable mountains - the wind around their peaks is savage for those of us who fly... Horses live in caves… And there is an over-population of horns." A shrug rolls through his shoulders, displacing the elevated wing for only a second.

"But she likes it…" thoughtfully he smiles as his eyes gesture through dimness, over to the dove.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior