As he had suspected, his fairy-winged friend is much more suited to answering the mare’s inquiry of dancing than he would ever be. Quentin seems to grasp her curiosity with eagerness, his merry voice overflowing with the flamboyance and energy that Rohan can only assume is normal for him. Dark-rimmed ears tilt forward in interest when the other stallion does a little demonstration in the thick grass. The Warlander can’t recall any point in his life when he had really…danced; there were a few promenades that were considered ‘traditional’ in Etherim, but he had spent far more time causing mischief that participating in political gatherings.

Breathing a quiet sigh through his nostrils, Rohan pointedly ignores any memories of his homeland, flicking his tail sharply around his ankles and forcing his attention to the gathering around him. He watches as Quentin welcomes Vitani, one side of his brow rising and his lips twisting into an amused smirk when the stallion plays with her hair, before complimenting her. “I would have to agree with that,” he adds smoothly, casting the chocolate mare a charismatic grin. Distractedly, the Warlander wonders what would happen if he had attempted what Quentin did. For whatever reason—orientation or otherwise—he highly doubts that mares would appreciate him invading their personal space so suddenly. Then again, you’ll never know if you never try, right?

Pursing his lips, the stallion files the thought away for another time, green eyes turning to Faeanne when she speaks to him. A low, breathy chuckle rumbles from his lips, and he lowers his antlered head slightly so his gaze is more level with hers. “I want only what will make me happy,” he muses with a wry smile, “often it is the simple things.” He gives the pretty mare a clever wink before broadening his attention again. Of course, life isn’t always as simple as that, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on dark matters now (not that he would have the chance either way—)

“Well how would you answer that question, Rohan? Would you be interested if I had lady bits? I mean, I can't blame you if you would!”

“What—?” He eyes the pixie man incredulously for a short (but tremendously confusing) moment before he catches up with the conversation. He had hardly heard Faeanne’s earlier question, and her hushed voice had barely been enough to register as words, and so he hadn’t wasted the energy of focusing on it. Only now does he recall them into recognition, and had it been possible for him to blush, he would have.

Chuckling deeply (only a slight tension in his tone) when Quentin stretches seductively—still very much entertained, despite his embarrassment—Rohan shakes his head, his laughter mingling with the other stallion’s. “I suppose I would,” and he means it! Undoubtedly, he would find his fairy-winged friend attractive were he a female. Rohan doesn’t really have a type, he’s hardly picky about his women. And he can’t deny that Quentin definitely has a flare about him, which Rohan can appreciate.

Fortunately, the topic continues quickly enough that it doesn’t become any more awkward. Both of the mares answer Quentin’s question in stride with his playfulness, Vitani seeming more at ease than Faeanne. She explains that she had been out for a simple stroll, to which Rohan nods once. “Not particularly uncommon in these parts,” that had more or less been his own intentions. Of course, the Threshold has its surprises, hardly allowing any of them an uneventful experience. Turning to the pale stallion, he continues casually, “If it is a home you seek, I can offer the Edge; it is a beautiful place. Or, if you’re more apt to wandering, I can point you in the direction of Helovia’s wilds. I have not been disappointed myself.” Indeed, his time as an Outcast had not been worthless, and he’s not about to pressure anyone into anything.

Waiting nonchalantly for Quentin’s response, he turns his crowned head when Vitani speaks up, voicing what her companion cannot. The Warlander offers the mare a brief, crooked smile before glancing to the pixie appendages in question. He understands their curiosity—he had been so himself upon his arrival, had had issued his own graceless inquiry. He would venture to say that it is far from the last time for Quentin—his abnormal wings are bound to draw an endless amount of attention in the future.


“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.