He watches – every subtle flicker of expression, every small movement of the fiery man’s silhouette. In part, the grey struggles to find some reason for this other creature’s presence and his manner. Clearly, he fears nothing of the forest – but he quells the first assumption bluntly. “No.” With a little sigh, all but soundless save to the keenest of ears, the grey accepts this denial. The other unicorn must know something, or possess some power, which renders impotent the mortal fears of the world. He must be dangerous – though why such a being might choose kindness toward the ghostly thing here waiting at the eaves – unfathomable.

        The boy’s ears twitch forward as the stranger continues to speak. In following the words, the silver head turns subtly north, contemplating that nameless, foreign land. Others must dwell there, too, but what kind? Are they powerful, as well? The pale eyes shift, returning as ever to the orange face. He is a riddle wrapped in gentility, his voice smooth as unblemished ice but warm, warm as the dappled colors of his sides. And why? Teasing out the answer to that question feels important, ever more so as the orange stallion’s offer comes, unasked for. Why grinds harder in the pale youth’s thoughts; his face nearly contorts with a frown, but merely smiling instead, wryly, he sidesteps, expelling tension born of surprise from the careful twitch of muscles. “Why?” It bubbles from his lips like laughter, half amused – far better than the only alternative emotion. Fear makes him clumsy.

        Roland. He learns the stranger’s name at last, engraving it immediately upon his memory. With a graceful bow of his head, the silver creature answers: “Caneo,” though the word tastes awkward in his mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind he feels guilty, almost like a thief. Is that his name? It is a word he knows, a word spoken at him. It is the nearest thing to a name he owns – the others are all too derogatory, all except for boy but that is worse. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, still wondering if the pretty words are a game or something else. For an instant he ponders the thief’s introduction; something silly, a winsome smile, twitches across his face. “I don’t have anything to steal.” Unless the thief means to steal him... as the notion settles over his mind, he stills, watching Roland with cool caution. What use is a half-grown orphan to this man? But what use is the orphan to himself, if he only passes the time chasing butterflies, and his heart quivers under the shadows of the forest?

        More softly then, he asks another question, subdued but somehow keen in the low, musical tenor of his voice. “Is there food in the Aurora Basin?”