He is quick to respond to my approach with a greeting, though it is short and fast and somehow not very welcoming in the slightest. I ignore him of course, set in my task of making, the only way I can respond regardless. Is it annoyance that flashes like a brief, summer storm over the stallion's gaze? I notice it barely, for that's all that it is there for, the stranger easily distracted and redirected to a different set of emotions by the blossoming of my flower.

His smile comes like a relief to his face - it must be unaccustomed to appearing sad - and with it splinters of tension break from his body. It's as if his joy is a chick hatching from an egg, each bit of shell a fragment of displeasure being ruptured.

I wonder what has him so upset to begin with. Anger and annoyance commonly walk side by side with sorrow and grief, though it pains me to say that his reaction to my absence of voice is common even in those I wouldn't have deemed 'down'. I guess a better word is blue, but I've never been fond of the phrase. Grey is far more dismal a color and black, as I am, something utterly devoid. I have never been blue; I have only been black.

The stallion murmurs gently now and I find myself flicking my ear towards him just to catch his sound better. I hope it also provides that sign that I am willing to listen to his troubles. I am a nosy thing by my very job description, but in a personal way I crave to know what gives others such misery. I experience so much of it, but only one kind.

He provides his name and I know what must come next.
Disappointment.

As soon as he asks I shake my head with a slow, gentle movement. The movement isn't entirely correct. He is of course, allowed to ask my name, and in doing so he already did, but I cannot give it, and that's what my negative response is for. Of course he will understand this, but words can have such round-about meanings, saying one thing but intending another. It is so strange and generally addicting to me to listen to others speak. I feel like an observer spying in on a world I can never take part of; an alien quietly dissecting the strange and bizarre.

It is with this great attention to his voice that I am suddenly struck with the memory of it. I stiffen for a moment, abruptly aware that this individual had been in the Basin. This had been Mirage's captor, the same one she spoke of as releasing her. I glance sidelong at him, viewing him in a different light with this new haze of knowledge. I feel nothing new to him truly. I saw enough evidence myself of the care he took of her and am grateful to his return of her, and being as we're both in the same line of work I understand the lack of personal sentiments that may go into the taking of individuals. Why I myself had captured a random stallion and never bothered to stop his escape attempt - it was mostly a challenge of my skills.

I do wonder though, how he managed to capture the almighty Mirage, though I fear I will never know it. Just something else to add to that list then.

My first smile had waned but I offer it once more, in the hopes of softening the blow with my lack of a name and the undoubtedly obvious change of expression that came with my realization. I hope to give some crumb of an explanation as I sweep my tail around once more, drawing out a sun and a cloud. I am sure he wishes not to speak of Mirage for the time being, and though to be rather honest I don't much care about his wants over my own thirst of knowledge, I know one must dance in social settings in order to run. I may eventually get to ask him, in so many pictures, another time. If I want to keep him with me here, for now, however, I must help him fully dissolve his woes. Besides, those do still interest me and sating one hunger with another fills your belly either way.

So I let the dark cloud cover the black sun, and I have it begin to rain ink, gently falling and washing off Xanthos. My gaze is direct and unwavering upon him, wonder and concern spinning in my onyx irises.