The brightly-colored stallion wastes no time in his response, reacting immediately to Rohan’s approach with a collection of giggles and trembling wings. One side of his brow rises amusingly, the length of his tail curling around the lower part of his hocks, before his eyes rise with the winged stranger. It would seem, with his diminutive knowledge, that flight with these fairy appendages is not the same as it is with other wings; these appear to flutter, rather than flap, and appear decidedly more elegant than mighty. “I see,” the Warlander’s speech is hardly a breath in his musings, more of a hum against his lips, though his voice soon broadens into a chuckle with the stranger’s teasing.

It isn’t often that he’s been called a silly goose—he can’t recall any other time in his life, in fact—and this stallion’s silly sense of humor is appreciated. If nothing else, Rohan could certainly do with a distraction. “Well aren’t you light on your feet,” he shakes his antlered head, watching idly as the colorful pegasus almost dances into his landing, giving a playful hop, skip, and  jump before alighting once more on the crisp grass.

When the stranger seems to relax then, the Warlander does the same; he’s too restless to cock anything a hip like his company, but he allows his muscles to settle beneath his skin, soothing his bones into a more comfortable position. However, this thin façade of ease is ruffled once the pixie-winged man speaks again. Darling. The word does not go unnoticed; Rohan has used it himself on countless occasions, a title usually given to blushing damsels with fluttering lashes and bashful smiles—but it is certainly not a label he would ever think to bear himself (from this fellow, specifically).

He shifts his weight, observing Quentin’s eye (practiced in the art of praise and admiration himself), and while his first instinct is to bristle in defense, he can’t help but feel…flattered. After all—is he not handsome? Is he not rugged? Is he not panty-dropping-worthy? Rohan doesn’t struggle in the slightest with his self-esteem (it might be far too bloated), and it is his pride that surges now. Twisting his lips into a gratified smirk, the Warlander raises his head, still a little uncomfortable but far too vain to change anything about it.

“It’s a pleasure as well…bro,” he’s not about to return the favor, but he can genuinely say that he has yet to be disappointed. To Quentin’s following question, the stallion shakes his antlered head in one gruff movement. “No, I don’t suppose I am—just wanted to clear my head I guess. I can try to answer any questions you might have though, I know how disorienting it can be.” He still remembers his first day in Helovia—a year ago now. It’s difficult for him to believe that so much has changed in such a seemingly short amount of time. And not wanting to agitate himself over the matter, Rohan continues, his gaze roaming again to the stallion’s wings. “I’ve never come across wings like yours; are they common where you come from?” He eyes Quentin from beneath the shadow of his brow, a light breeze ruffling his lengthy forelock.


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.