Droo-id... The foal’s ears snapped forward the second Mauja repeated that word; his name, and it sounded ugly when it resonated unpleasantly in his mind. It held no sentiment in the child’s throbbing heart (something about the distant memory of a mare in his past, almost), but when the stallion issued it with such gentleness and flagrant compassion Druid was drawn forward a step, cooperatively perhaps.

No matter how gauche he appeared, wrapped up in feral gangly awkwardness; nor how aloof the invisible dome beneath which he hid from culture, allowed him to be, the infant was still a creature of habit- one of instinct. His neck bowed upwards inelegantly, and the short flimsy fold of greasy mane flapped at the suddenness of the movement. Maybe it was the sheerness of the ailing foal’s exhaustion which bent him into humble submission. Locked in wary silence he slipped forward again slightly, charmed in a sense, by the resolute beckoning of Mauja’s promising voice. There would be hope for a foal who faced inevitable death (no matter how determined his yearning for survival was), when his wilfulness caved to the suppressive weight of logic.

His small face tilted sidewards, unable to grasp the proper location of Mauja when he continued talking. "I have many friends, in a place called the Basin. If you do not want to be alone anymore, we'd gladly take you in, protect you, and make sure you always have food and shelter..." The colt could not have known his own predicament- much like the certain yet oblivious demise of the youngest, and weaker of two chicks in a pelican’s nest. Life was about survival of the fittest, and in that respect, Druid fell far short.

For a third time, his muzzle extended outwards- finally twitching, searching for some form of connection which might bind the stallion into reality. “I...I...I...” It was difficult, his thoughts fighting to control his rebel tongue, just as wild moths (far heavier and more unsettled than the delicate softness of butterflies) began to stir in his agitated, empty stomach. His brow furrowed with frustration, and his stale expression became one of disheartenment. “Ok.” He breathed quickly, and the word slipped simply amid the soft exhalation from his lungs.

His tread was lopsided, cursed by muscle wastage, something that would undoubtedly cause any following journey to be long and arduous. Druid did not know any different though, trapped ignorantly in damaged casing, completely unaware that those around him suffered little the way he struggled, if at all. Again his milky eyes sought the visual comfort of Mauja, broadening as they peered fruitlessly through the black. Through nervous apprehension, he silently committed himself to the stallion’s offering, unsure now what to expect or what was to come from this.