Still queerer than any he has met prior - the dry-witted Lord, the presumptuous prince, the reptilian woman, or the rare few with nothing to decorate their identities at all - the palest among them tempts back his recovering interest, with mortal-like responses that (he feels), all but banish that initial spine-tingling cheer. Still she giggles, yet thinner, with a new edge to suggest perhaps, that calculating intellect boils below a comic surface of pallid grins and brilliant expression – a real personality.

Aquamarine’s glisten beneath the narrowed pitch of blonde lashes, and he watches her carefully as she addresses, nay, mocks, his dove; ears fasten rearward when they taste insulting tone and he meets it head on with a perfectly sunny smile and light (hearted) snap of blunt teeth. "Nora speaks in foreign tongue." His tone lacks aggression, aggravation – an eye for an eye - though it seems irrelevant all the same as her attention appears fixed to their muddied, bay company.

A child? …he wonders, regrouping in contemplative quiet, for while the height of her seems too tall, angular hips and wraithlike, dainty features serve to compliment the theory. Nora too was a finely formed creature, though it was easily apparent that she was adult; neither was his sweet-hearted lover as, fizzy.

While the others are preoccupied amongst themselves – the dog rests on the tiny hooves of the (actual) child who is watching, and the rest fling about insults under witty guise – Noah places a protective, reassuring nudge upon warm, milky skin. There is no real reason for them to linger; their journey has been long and they both are exhausted, yet as he teeters on the brink of decision, the strange man slips from the stew to shake the muck heartily from his hide. Wings rise to half-mast, and chin hurls away to the side, but alas he too receives the crude spattering; in the seconds which follow, the male’s name is put forward blandly, and the white woman’s retort comes still faster and more slippery than an eel through the sea.

A surly expression fills the chiselled features of his face, but it recedes again swiftly as he turns lips to preen the longest feathers (flared forward with arms ajar, for he cared little to turn his back on this crowd).

Though bothered by the sudden rise of tension, the listening stallion picks from amidst venom and laugher, a glimmering point of interest. "Your Master?" He queries, tone without stunt and filled very obviously to the brim with intrigue. Weeks before, he and Nora had stumbled upon a God (of the earth), and with expanding pupils now, he ventures one step nearer.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior