A lack of passion continued to brim in the eyes of Ricochet as he stared down upon the splotchy mare. He was wondered faintly if he was wasting his time standing here, and thought perhaps to send Guns away to search for someone more useful, but then the boy at his side spoke.

There was a weight to the tones that hummed from his lips that gave Ricochet's head to turn and watch. He was drawn to the stallion at his side in a way he could never be to the mare, too daft and helpless on the ground like that. Yet the boy, he had a sinister molding to the curves of his face and a depth to his eyes that promised intelligence.

Ricochet could certainly use more of that. Madness was already in high enough supply.

Next came the words that shocked the dun - to learn that this potential had been sitting under his nose all this time! He'd been to busy moping about the grassy hills, seeing only horns and wings, that he'd been blind to the preciously normal.

The scared face tilted a smile.

"Ricochet the Incendiary, of the Foothills also," the dun offered by way of introduction.

The dog at his side stirred in the snow, though Ricochet paid him no heed. In a scattering of white powder the furred body had lifted and now it paced the tree line with a soft whine. Amber eyes bored into the trees, aware of a presence yet the senses did not yield its form.

Ricochet was distracted by this distraction as two pegasus arrived, one of which he knew from the Foothills. She ambled up with an authority he didn't think she possessed and kneeled beside the girl with a comforting awkwardness. Ricochet shifted his weight, unimpressed.

Whatever tender words Svetlana had hoped would reach the thick skull of the mare seemed to fail and dim as the splotchy head only seemed to shake with lack of comprehension. Her garbled reply told as much, and though he knew he shouldn't, Ricochet smirked at that. He could not outright show his great dislike of the winged mare sharing his residence, but he could not resist the temptating of reveling in her failures if given the opportunity.

The continued voice of the downed foreigner attracted Ricochet's attention once more. She proffered a name no less stranger than herself. Ricochet cocked an ear at it, unaccustomed to the play of her accent on words so new. It was not altogether unpleasant.

Exhaling a sigh that told of wearing patience Ricochet hoped to address her again. He knew by the broken pattern of her speech and the lilting tenor of her language that he would have to speak short and slow for her to understand. "Verenia. Cold, must stand. Get warm, get healer in Foothills herd. Make better." Ricochet spit out the scattered tones, hoping the meaning was not lost and that some spark of understanding would flare in her confused eyes. Mostly he was wondering if a healer could fix the wrong that seemed to be scattered in her head.

R I C O C H E T - -
blam, you're dead