The militant mare is surprised at the strength of emotion she sees in Kahelo’s bright yellow gaze. The colt is normally docile… submissive. It is surprising to the warrior that she takes interest in one such as he: a misshapen colt with no voice. But there is something beneath the crooked spine and quiet obedience—something that she sees glinting out of his amber eyes in this moment.

But the pain in her head prevents her from thinking too long on the heated, yellow stare the youth gives her. And the heat is gone before a few beats have passed. Not entirely, though, for there is still a slivered point to his tawny stare. Her unblinking eyes meet his levelly, for all the pain in her head, and she waits—would this pain bait him to speak?

No, instead she receives a wrinkled nose in response to her words. The seahorse had become surprising adept at noticing the small changes in his soft, greyed face. She is surprised to find this about herself, for she was better at reading an opponent’s body before an attack then at reading a child’s face. At least she was, until now.

She allows him to step closer to her, invading a space that she usually keeps free of others. She is a woman who needed space; forever on the defensive. But, for Kahelo, she makes a single exception in this moment of shared pain. Her unblinking stare watches his ungainly, awkward steps towards her, and her swollen ridges stiffen as he reaches out towards her with his muzzle.

It has been so long since she has touched anyone outside of battle.

Her stare is piercing as he reaches out towards her sharpened horn’s base, and she cannot help the slight backward jerk of her plated skull. She regrets this motion on two fronts: one because the motion sends a wave of pain in her skull; two because the soft velvet of Kahelo’s grey muzzle would have been a welcome touch.

But she has already moved away, instead watching the gnashing of his teeth. She realizes, then, that the colt has grown quickly since she had saved him from falling to a fiery fate. “You have grown, Kahelo,” her softened voice speaks without purpose, which is odd for the Akvian. She normally saves her words for a time when they are needed and warranted.

But not with the little, grey tilefish. With him, she speaks without reason. She speaks in her native tongue and the common tongue. Her face-fins wave slightly, sending a brush of air towards his face that is so close to hers. “It means ‘The cure for all is salt,’” she says quietly, explaining her earlier Akvian axiom.

And then she takes a step backwards, eyes turning away from him. “It is not safe here. We should go back into the Falls,” gone was the quiet reflection of her voice, though it is still hushed from the pain. Her shoulders turn towards the heart of the herdlands, though her face remains pointed towards Kahelo.