Ryle hira, isn't a word. It means nothing to you, but it shivers into your ears and down your spine all the same — a taste of something new, something foreign, a mystery and a question and a wonderful thing glimpsed so fleetingly your wings lift a fraction as if to carry you after. Her voice changes in the saying of it; your heart stutters as she translates for you, and in your native tongue it's dull — not something a boy wants to hear. Your expressive face makes that clear — the turned-back ears, the pouting wrinkles pooling at the edges of your mouth. Life is what it is? What about what you want it to be? What it should be? What about all the things you want and want to do? Unsatisfied and inarticulate, you chew on ugly taste of this wisdom and your tail twitches out discomfort. Stupid. Stupid.

"Who told you that?" you ask at last, and there's an accusation in your tone, as if you mean to hunt them down and fight them. Or maybe it's wariness. Maybe you accuse her now of lying. Either way, your gaze is sharp as you look her up and down, your thoughts echoing always out of your mouth why, why, why in a hundred different forms. Despite your dour attitude, prickles of intrigue, of fondness, already wend their way around your heart when you look at this — Zyanya. She speaks to you the way you like being spoken to, and she makes no sudden movements.

Also — and this is childish — you sort of want to stand under her belly so the rain will go away.

You won't — she isn't Mama. But you think about it as she acknowledges that yes, she is a member of your herd. You nod, because you already figured that out. Now your eyes wander from her face, a little shy of even her gently probing gaze, and you study the wet earth around her hooves, thinking something of her color is like Mama but not enough... A small sigh escapes you. It seems all your life's bound up in wanting, doesn't it?

"I live there, too," you mumble. Your wet forelock feels like a pile of worms between your ears, ugh. Giving it another good shake, you add, because you can, "My Mama's General Ki'irha." Now you can talk, you sort of like saying that just because you can. Your Mama's the best fighter in the entire Basin. Your Mama. Your head lifts a little higher, and your dour attitude falters a bit. Zyanya's next question is easy and difficult, and it's related to what you just said but probably way moreso than she realizes.

Again, you employ silence as your first answer of choice. Thoughts stagger about behind your eyes, searching for some semblance of tact, of honesty, of persuasiveness. Maybe she can help you? She hasn't anything you're looking for, you think, but you're so miserable and she looks so.... not...

"I am on a quest," you say at last, frowning mightily. And who taught you that word, Virga? That's a mighty word for this little adventure, isn't it? You say it anyway, rebellious and grandiose, the valiant son of a general and a piece of the sky. "I'm looking for something." Now, you don't say what. You're too clever for that. You do lift your gaze a little, though, and peek out through your wet hair at Zyanya's face — or at least, the general vicinity. "Why are you?" you toss back instead.

You're getting better at this conversation thing.

VIRGA