There is something... near familiar in the way Drom watches him. It is a distant look, a watching look, eyes that see but fail to feel. He knows it, and if he were a little better, a little keener, he might say something to bridge the distance between himself, Essetia, and this orange mare. But he does not; cannot. He is, too, a creature aloof. Whatever she reads in his voice, in his careless friendliness, she reads in error. He is not kind, not in love, not anything. He listens, though.

        She speaks of the Earth God, and her rank, and Caneo supposes he was wrong to feel doubt. He blinks at her mention of crafting. What does that mean? What does she craft? Caneo wonders, too, about this Hidden Falls and all the others things falling out of her mouth, slanted in that strange voice. She is like him and yet not; the familiarity he felt when she arrived has long evaporated, and in its place roils curiosity just overruled by confusion.

        “That’s nice,” he tells Drom. Caneo is sincere now – in his own way. “Do you have a lot of stories?” He met a spotted mare once with a head full of them. Drom seems much quieter, though. Maybe it’s the desert blood in them both. Maybe the children of such places are never meant to be happy, and certainly not happy together.

        Essetia demands his attention then, and he turns to look. Something in her tone has changed, though Caneo fails to mark its meaning. His ears twitch, curious, nonetheless. His thoughts turn toward summer, gold and green, and something bright is there on his face. “Yes! I would like that.” He has misjudged her, too, though he may not think to realize it until he’s left this place. She seems like a good mind, though. He nods and turns to Drom again, to invite her as well, even though she probably comes all the time and knows the Earth God better than he.

        Caneo finds her leaving, instead. Surprise bleeds the joy from his face as he blinks, his tail coiling again, once, unhappily. He knows this feeling – too familiar – he has endured it silently so many times. “Oh.” And Caneo does not ask her to stay; he is not one to beg, and even if they might have been better together in different circumstances, on a different day... Hers is another face he will forget.

        If he feels sorrow, he quickly strangles it.

        “Goodbye, then,” Caneo says, polite still – always. His eyes are on her as she goes, on her until she is gone, until he cannot see her anymore. He breathes a small breath, the meaning behind it something like weariness. When Drom is no more, he turns back to Essettia, though his words have mostly fled, disrupted by surprise and by confusion, both. “She was strange,” he murmurs, blinks, shifts his weight. “Do you need to go, as well?” If so, let her do it now. These things are so much easier before he feels attached.