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She seems at ease here, he notes, ears swiveling to catch her words. An approval of sorts is granted, gentle voice telling him that she likes his name. No one has ever commented on his moniker before, though he supposes that's because few bother to learn it. Still, he is both pleased and baffled by the minor compliment, eyes flicking up for a moment to search her face for any sign of how to respond. Should he thank her? He doesn't know, and he doesn't think he really deserves the praise either. After all, his mother had chosen the name, not him, and so she should get the credit. But Koona isn't here, never will be, for he knows she is long dead. So, does that mean that the name becomes something he owns now, passed down like some treasured object? Do names work that way? Maybe he should ignore the kind words, but that would be rude, wouldn't it? His brow furrows in confusion, but the mare in front of him doesn't seem to expect an answer, speaking again before he gathers enough wits to respond.
He relaxes slightly when she says she has no interest in fighting. She has been nothing but friendly to him, venturing into the darkness of his preferred cavern brandishing nothing but cheerful speech and lovely smiles. Surely no monster-hunter would do such a thing, nor would any unsatisfied warrior. Nor would anyone with cruel intentions extend their soft muzzle toward him, the way she is doing. This is familiar, something he understands, and he mirrors the gesture, gently brushing his black nose against her pale one. She pulls back afterwards, so he does too, pulling his head and neck back to their normal position. A question follows, along with a shortened of his name. She seems oriented on names, this woman, but he doesn't mind, nor does he mind answering her query. "Far away. Ryvegyr." He wonders if he should tell her more, spin stories of the superstitious herds and the wandering beasts they feared. Of his mother, the midnight witch-woman, who had only to touch an old bone to know everything that creature had ever learned while alive. Of his father, the stallion who did not realize that he was dead, and so kept roaming the land.
Maybe not.
Aurelia is preparing to do something anyway, warning him of fire. He isn't certain of how she plans to make a fire here, for their is nothing to burn except for stone and extremely damp plants. He supposes that the plants might burn, if the flame is hot enough, but how does she expect to make the blaze that hot?
His questions are answered when she unfurls her wings, the tips already ablaze. He shields away, startled by the sudden eruption of light, as well as the fact that his new friend is on fire! It doesn't seem to harm her, for she is not screaming and flailing about, but it is still an unnerving sight, even for the ghoul, who devoured stories of such things. She must be some sort of elemental spirit, like Tangere and Abishia, or maybe a high ranking angel. He wonders if their entire conversation has been a test, a way for her to determine his fate. Has he been properly polite and respectful? Slaiter thinks he has, but one can never know. She had given him a warning of what she was going to do, so maybe she is pleased with him, revealing her true form to him as a reward.
He realizes that he is staring at the mare, eyes wide, and he quickly tries to compose himself, to calm his racing heart. Oddly enough, now that the shock is wearing off, he has the craziest urge to touch the flames, to see for himself if they really burn or if they are mere illusion. Stupid, he knows, but he has never claimed to be smart, not really. Slowly, he steps nearer, ignoring the heat that pours from the fire.
Maybe he just wants to know what it feels like to be burned by elemental or holy fire, to see if it's any different, any purer than regular flames.
Kissing death and losing my breath
Slaiter
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