You're busy dying if you're living in the past

She was an enigma, this girl of lavender and stars and morose. She was sweet and innocent, longing for the companionship of another. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was painfully obvious by the way she merely looked at him and stepped closer, no matter how hard she may try to hide it, that there was still so much more that she hadn't told him. That she longed for something. Crowley was all eyes and ears on her, and it was awful. She was annoying, and she was beautiful, and she was... hornless. And disgusting.

That fact alone would have normally been enough to drive Crowley away from her at the very least or, more true to his nature, sent him lunging at her in attack mode. He loathed the winged species of equine with all that he was, for they had been the ones responsible for so many deaths in his home of Etaine. They were the ones with blackness in their souls and coldness in the hearts, not he, who had never done a thing for such hatred to come drifting into his life. Should anyone else ever hear his thoughts, they might have thought them twisted and wrong, that he was the wrong-doer in the grand scheme of things. The Plague was already looked down upon as a group of tyrants who wanted complete and total domination, but did they know why its members loathed those different than themselves so?

Crowley already knew what it was like to be on the outside looking in. In his mind, it all made perfect sense, and any who held not a crown upon their head would suffer at the end of his own.

She confided to him that, yes, she did believe in Gods, and that she had met the God of Earth and watched him disappear with the rest of his other worldly siblings. Irrydae states her position as Storyteller of the Foothills, and then confesses that the title isn't one she is worthy to bear. Under any other circumstance, the Weaver would have hardly batted an eye as the mare turned her own towards the ground in what he believed to be sorrow, but today he furrowed his brow and closed the final distance between them, reaching out with the intention to touch his muzzle against the side of her neck.

The action seemed to be Talbot's breaking point, and with low growl passing curled lips, the hound turned and stalked away from the two until he was out of sight. But Crowley seemed to neither care nor notice.

"That's no way to think," he said, withdrawing his muzzle to meet the mare's golden eyes once more, "Perhaps he saw potential in you whereas no other held it. Maybe you aren't fit," he said, knowing despite the curse that his choice of words could be risky to say but not hesitating to go on. "In which case, you ought not keep trying to impress everybody. You deserve happiness... even if the light of the world does flicker out once and for all." His words had been firm, but still held an air of concern to them. He exhaled slowly, and then he turned his head, intending to run his muzzle lightly across the Pegasi's barrel.

"We will die," came his voice again, lower this time than before, "Tonight, or tomorrow, or twenty years from now... I've no way of knowing. But during the time we have left, why not enjoy it, and relish in the company that we still have?"