The stallion’s gaze was a mix of apprehension and consideration as he first met Roland’s eyes, his uneasiness no doubt bolstered by the ominous song of the forest. The whistle of wind accompanied the Thief’s arrival, and leaves rattled against each other overhead, a coarse melody to contradict the benevolence in his greeting. He did his best to appear unoffending, though it is not often he is perceived as a threat. Perhaps his golden hide implied innocence rather than iniquity, which in the end would only do him favours when his intentions were all but virtuous. But for now, he meant no harm to the boy standing before him.

Though a soft hello followed shortly after his own salute, Roland’s proffered smile went unanswered, and only seemed to further perplex the silver youth. Had he been without kindness for so long that he did not know how to react to it? Or had he never known warmth, as the state of his malnourished figure suggested. The boy did offer him an answer to his question after a hesitant breath, though it wasn’t exactly the explanation Roland was looking for. When the outlander turned his gaze towards the forest, the bones of his shoulders and spine became all the more pronounced, cutting in and out of fading sunlight and shadow as sinew shifted over bone.

The boy's inquiry reached his ears, a wary question posed above the evening chatter of birds and insects. Roland chuckled quietly, glancing around the darkening woods with disapproval. Vagabonds and pilgrims had passed beneath the venerable boughs, but none had ever stayed long enough to call the forest their own. It belonged to all the herds, in a way, for unless they were born to the deserts or mountains beyond, all had travelled through the Threshold. “No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “My home is to the north. If you need a place to stay, you are welcome to return with me.”

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself with the offer, but he couldn't bear the thought of leaving the gaunt stallion on his own again while darkness descended upon the forest. There was no commitment required, of course. The boy could simply stay a night, see Lena if any wounds needed healing, and be on his way the next morning. Or perhaps he already had some home he could return to, waiting beyond the reaches of Helovia; and if so, the Thief would say his farewells and wish him good health, though the boy was unlikely to depart from his thoughts all too soon. With a jolt, he realized that he had never gotten the stallion's name, nor had he given his own. "I'm Roland, Thief of the Aurora Basin." The name might not do him any good, but at least he would know what to call him.