She rests against him for a moment, and he does not pull away, does not sidle to the side to avoid the contact. For, he reasons, if he is tired from the run surely she must be too, and this girl does not harm him, has not lashed out to strike and buffet his skin until he is forced to flee. No, this is almost comforting, and he realizes suddenly that she is trusting him, believing that he will not move and unbalance her. It is a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one, and he takes a few seconds to ponder what all of this means.
It does not take long for her to speak, issuing a query in response to his curious gaze. He shakes his head in a silent negative. He understands nothing yet, has no way of knowing about the plague of undead that has fallen upon Helovia. He has managed to put a few pieces together, is fairly certain that something is wrong, but what and why are still mysteries. The other girl had said something about infection, but the rain had been loud and he may have misheard.
Tangere moves away then, gently tugging at his mane as she goes, and he finally notices how soaked and muddy they both are. Her lower legs are covered in muck, the rest in sweat, and he is even worse, neck and chest splattered with the gunk her hooves had kicked up behind her. And while he may not particularly mind the filth, he supposes the other horses in the cave might. He follows obediently, attempting to avoid brushing against any of the strangers who crowd the cavern, until they reach water, where she stops to drink. He hesitates, but she looks to him again and invites him join her, so he steps forward, dipping his black muzzle into the cool water and taking his fill.
Once finished, he surveys the crowd again. Though there are far too many packed into this place for him to be truly comfortable, none seem to have noticed the pair lingering near the pool, and for that he is grateful, if not a little confused. Don't they keep track of who is coming into their sanctuary? Or had someone noticed, only to see him entering with a familiar face, and gone back to whatever it was they had been doing? He supposes it does not much matter, for the horses have sheer numbers on their side. That is an unnerving thought to the ghoul, the stallion who has always been called a monster. What if they turn on him? He edges a bit closer to the silver mare, thinking that maybe seeing him with her may help dissipate any suspicion cast his way.
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