Truth be told, this was Gaucho's first time ever being a noobie anywhere. When he was born, the dynamics of his herd were fairly explicitly layed out for him - due to his impressive size, even as a colt, he was cast in with the warriors. The warriors were never told who their sire and dam were, to encourage them to protect each member of the herd as if they were family. He had grown to become a stoic stallion, speaking only when necessary, and perfecting the art of battle. Now however, as Levi brought him to the Dragon's Throat, telling him that he was a Sar-gent, Gaucho could feel the confusion setting in. He didn't understand many of the flowery words that the grullo stallion had used; words like, sir and sar-gent. They apparently held meaning, yet it was ambiguous to the bay what those meanings were. Not much of a thinker on his own, Gaucho need guidance and direction - if you told him to kill, he would. But if you left him to make friends in the Throat, he would likely remain precisely where you left him.

The massive hanoverian stallion survey the dry expanses of the Throat with little interest. He would make due with whatever habitat he was going to live in, and paid little attention to the comforts that the Throat provided. His steely gray gaze noted strategic fighting points in the arid expanses, observing where the land would give him an advantage, and where it would not. He snorted slightly, moving his nose which also caused the bone piercing the soft cartilage in his nose to move somewhat, as dust invaded nostrils. Flicking his luxuriously long tail, he raised his head high, carrying himself with a surprising grace for a creature his size. The sun's light reflected dully upon him, yet his eyes did not squint - the war paint around his left eye, combined with the thick black rings around his eye sockets helped to cut down the glare significantly.

With a grunt, Gaucho halted. He folded his feathered wings to his flanks, instinctively sheltering his core from the warm rays of the sun. The creatures here wore no siguls to dictate their rank within the herd - how was he to know who was in charge? As he cast his gaze about, he saw pegasi frolicking together. They seemed unafraid and domicile, leading Gaucho to believe that either the warriors of this herd did a very good job, or that these little doves were stupid. Standing quite still, letting the soft breeze toss his mane from his shoulders, he grunted again. He needed a job. Something to do. Someone to fight?