He smells the sea before he glimpses it. Like a beacon, the sharp tang of salt in his nose steers Caneo true to home. Still, the concept weighs strangely on his narrow shoulders. He forces it through his mind now and then - home - as if testing the truth of the feeling, but it is never real. The Dragon't Throat lies at the end of this path he walks, yes, and he has chosen it out of necessity, but - home? He fears he will never understand the meaning of that word.

    None of this he tells the spotted mare wandering at his heels. For her, he makes himself a messenger, relying on lessons learned long ago and engraved violently upon some primitive nerve at the core of his spine. He is polite; he is as kind as Caneo can be. Every now and then he glances back to ensure she follows still, though every now and then he wonders why. None of this - weighs on Caneo's heart. He feels strangely empty, like a machine created long ago by a forgetful god, as he traverses Helovia. He does not dream; daylight presses hot fingers down over his pale skin. It demands attentiveness, and his ears swivel to catch the crying of seabirds and the hiss of the wind. His body travels at the ground-eating pace he grew up with, in the meantime. If distance wears on his bones, he shows no sign of it.

    He stops, at last, near the cliffs. Even if he meant to travel farther in he cannot, yet, as he lacks a key like the one Ampere gave to Essetia those days ago. For a long moment, he gazes in silence down at the drop, waves crashing white and foaming over the rocks hundreds of feet below. Briefly, he considers the terror of the fall before he takes a neat step back and turns once more to Dasmine. "Here," he tells her, and motions to the island rising in the distance. "The Throat is there, but we will wait here for the leaders. They will answer your questions." A brief grimace, a stranger to his features, pinches the stallion's nose before he throws back his head and lets go a long, silver cry, a call to anyone in range of hearing. He knows too few of his herd mates to demand their presence by name. But now it is done and he lets out a breath, realizing for the first time how tense anxiety renders his nerves.

    The wind combs through his mane as he returns his attention to Dasmine. He ought have been a little more forgiving, maybe. "What do you think?" he asks. It will pass the time until someone else arrives.

    The unmistakeable awe crashes like a wave over his companion's face. Watchful now, Caneo wonders if he looked like that the first time he stood upon the brink. Despite his earlier thoughts, he can't help from chuckling, expression bright with approval and with pride. Even if the Throat is not yet home, Caneo feels glad to have recruited someone with such feeling for it. He nods, a smile curling gently across his mouth. The anxious tension of his nerves fades by degrees, soothed by the voices of the waves. "I think so, too," Caneo answers softly. Were he a little younger still, he might call Dasmine friend, as well.

    But Caneo is a sharper creature than the one who found Helovia those years ago, stars in his eyes and bloody miles underfoot. He stands beside Dasmine and yet he is miles away from her, held distant by a wary mind. The thrill of their journey hasn't blinded him to their surroundings; a sharp jerk of his head brings Caneo's attention at once skyward, where he finds the shape of a winged creature wheeling toward them. It is not Ampere. Surprise prickles through him, visible between heart beats in the wide, empty shine of his eyes. By the time the stranger touches down, Caneo has swallowed the feeling. He stares evenly at brown wings over a brown hide, at a brisk, lively pace carrying a small body in his direction.

    Does everybody here move like a soldier?

    Everyone except himself, he supposes - and Essetia. Caneo's ears flick forward at the sound of the mare's voice, and it's friendly, so much that he can do little more than stare. These winged mares are so.... much. He doesn't recall others of their kind being this way, and he doesn't hate it, but it definitely takes a bit of getting used to. He's silent for a beat too long, confused by this stranger who knows his name. He has not given it to her - and so, who did? If Megaera's expression tightens just a bit at the sight of him, Caneo's does the same, suspicion greeting suspicion, tamped down on both ends and given no voice. "Good morning," he says simply, silver voice a bit cooler than it usually is. "It is an honor to meet you, Sultana. I hope to be a useful spy."

    As if to display his usefulness, Caneo swings now to gesture at Dasmine. Glad to find the Sultana's attention slipping from him of its own accord, he falls silent, content to watch and to wait, and allow the newcomer to speak for herself. His part in this draws swiftly to an end. He thinks longingly of the oasis, of napping in the brush and tracing the course of the black water at night, but most of him is still upon the cliffs, waiting to know if it has done well.

    The silver stallion is quiet now, a watcher and little else, though his attention strays from the mares every now and then fix upon the island ahead of them. He regrets now venturing anywhere without first consulting their crafter, whoever it may be, and obtaining his own key. What a chore, to be escorted like a child in and out... Long ears twitch occasionally to follow the conversation, though he doesn't really mind it. Dasmine mentions a nomadic herd and his interest prickles somewhat, though he knows it can be nothing like his homeland. She is too soft to have anything in common with him. Maybe that's a virtue, though. Megaera seems to like it.

    He blinks at the bay mare again, receiving praise with a nod of his head. He cannot be certain how sincere she is, this unknown mare. So far, everyone save Essetia has been of similar make: small, powerful fliers built for war. Is it such a wartorn land? Caneo noticed little fighting in his last excursion through Helovia, but maybe things have changed. He thinks of Essetia, so different from these other creatures and yet so at home, and wonders if he will ever seem that way. He will stay regardless; he will carve himself a home in this place. Winter's teeth hurt far more than a lack of belonging.

    He begins to stir when Megaera mentions the bridge at last. Long face tilting toward Dasmine, he adds, "Welcome to the herd, officially. I'm sure we'll meet again." His gaze shifts over to the pegasus. "Thank you, Megaera," for the passage across, of course. Caneo likes to think this will be the last time he seeks aid simply to go in and out of his home.