Following his mother was fairly easy, the moment she had left the throat the young tribrid had taken to the air, curiosity glimmering in his crimson pools as he tailed her through the clouds at a leisurely pace. Once or twice, he had considered descending on her in a obnoxious display of his supposed aerial prowess, swoop in like a valiant knight and bask in his own pride as he managed to not drop, tuck, and roll in a mound of feathers and tangled hair.

In the end, he'd decided against it, no doubt he would of done exactly that, would of over thought everything to try and avoid screwing up and end up doing it twice fold. Suffer a wounded pride for it. Hobble around for a moment with a hitched voice declaring that he was just fine, while silently thankful that his face couldn't flush to the brightest shade of red. It wouldn't do him any good to embarass himself, what kind of colt could slay a wolf and command magic, yet appeared to be incapable of landing? A small snort escaped him at the thought, and his horned head gave a dismissive shake.

Tailing her gave him a perfect opportunity to escape his wandering thoughts, and his impending quest and realizations of what he was. Push all the negative and conflicting emotions out of his young mind and focus on flying and seeing what Sikeax was upto. Trying to follow his Grandfather's advice, that he was too young to be caught up in worldly affairs, and tethered by crippling obligations. For now, cloven hooves scraped the invisible skyways on the pegasus' vast aerie, with the quiet tinkling of his golden chains chiming their lullaby soft tune into his ashy ears. Allowing the wind to ruffle through his sailing feathers, feel it tousel through his ever growing mane and snake his tail to and fro as he climbed and swooped as he saw fit.
 
Eventually, the champagne figure below dipped into trees too thick for him to fly through and his eyes narrowed with a small snort. Looked like he would have to go on foot from here, not that he really minded. He'd spent long enough on the ground before he learned to fly, it wasn't much of an inconvience to return to what he knew. Tyrath waited for a couple of minutes, before he landed and trotted in, following his mother's tracks and the tell tale signs of disturbed branches and grasses. Deeper and deeper, he wondered how equines had half the patience to wander this place, searching out new souls to bring back to the herd. Did his mother ever get tired of it? It seemed like she was the only one that was bothering to trek this far north to gather up those that found themselves lost.


Wouldn't it be better to wait until the best ones stumbled out of the forest and pick them up? It'd separate the ones with half a brain, and the ones that had a rock rattling around in there. It'd make bringing back useful equines easier, how many did he watch come to the throat and vanish? Or find themselves content to sit by the oasis and eat themselves fat. Tyrath's winged shoulders gave a small shrug, ashy ears suddenly perked forward at the sound of new voices and a familiar one he instantly recognized. She didn't sound thrilled, which waved a red flag to the tribrid and he found himself scowling. Toothy maw set in a stern thin line, whoever she was talking to were doing a piss poor job of making a good first impression with her. That made for them making a piss poor first impression on him.

And then the terrible barking cackle from Goblin which sends them flat against his poll, he trudged forward despite the rattled nerves, stepping out of the trees and toward Sikeax's side. "Is everything okay, ma?" He questioned slightly, lips pulled back to reveal the sharpened frontal teeth and dragonlike fangs rather than the usual, herbivorous teeth found in his fellow herd members maws. He scrutinized them with his unblinking eyes, neck arched forward and head tilted to the side to give him a better view of each one. Crimson pools ran over the patchwork, messily put together hide of the stallion, it reminded him of the cave paintings in the heart caves, only half finished with the artists stroke leaving messy spots of ink in it's wake. Then, once he appeared satisfied, he turned to the orange mare who had earned the corrective tone of his dam. Her face is a mockery of his, of his sibling's and his father's, her rib and spine markings further rubbing salt in the wound. All in all, she reminds him of the fall vegetable he vaguely remembers the other youngsters chirping about carving them into weird designs with magic or companions. "I didn't know pumpkins came in horse form." He states idly as he glanced at Sikeax momentarily, his tone dripping false wonderment.

Life is not a song, sweetling.
Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.

Tyrath