The dark, dismal caves reflect the colt's mood as he descends from the autumn sun outside and into shadowy blackness. His wings are furled close to his sides and his proud bull-horned head hangs low as the weight of the world seems to rest on his young shoulders.

Not a day goes by when he doesn't think of his Ave. He misses the Wildfire terribly - as much as he loves his mother and sister, they just cannot compete with the role-model that his father was to him. There's so much that he hasn't learned, so much that the fallen Sultan had left to teach his son before his untimely demise. Of course, Arakh is under no delusions that he was ever a particularly special member of Gaucho's brood, that he was more entitled to his father's attention than any of his siblings. Quite the contrary - he is deeply jealous of the oldest ones, those that had many years of the Wildfire's company compared to a few precious short months. But he'd always assumed that father and son would bond through the years, that one day Gaucho would smile down at little Arakh and deem him worthy of carrying his blood.

But no more. Ave is ashes and dust, his carcass plundered by his own children, his exploits just a fond memory in the minds of his many admirers.

The events of his sire's passing are another cause of concern to the calf. It had been his first time meeting most of his siblings, and yet none of them apart from Verro had shown any interest towards him, or made any move to comfort him. Is this the close-knit band of brothers and sisters he'd pictured in his mind since his mother told him of his father's other offspring? Fighting between themselves, ignoring the blatant grief of one of their youngest members - hell, one of his oldest sisters had even conspired to try and traumatise him by using her magic to move Gaucho's dead skull towards him, consuming his soul in a fire of hope before it was doused in crushing realisation. Are these the siblings he is cursed with? He had thought they would come together, united by grief and a mutual love of the man who sired them. Instead, they were just a scattering of individuals, each lost in their own world.

Perhaps he shouldn't have expected support from them. Perhaps they resent him simply for existing, for lessening their uniqueness; perhaps they thought he had no right to grieve for their father, given how short a span of time he'd known him. Perhaps he should realise that Esinakh is the only sibling he can rely on, the only one he needs - she will never forsake him.

These events conspire to cast Arakh under a shadow of misery and uncertainty. He should be experiencing the happiest days of his life, long weeks and months of growing and exploring, but he can't find it in his heart to do anything but mope around the Edge. It took a lot of effort on his part to motivate himself to finally move from his herd this morning, to roam towards the sunken caves where he can be alone with his thoughts.

A pillar of faint light draws his attention; it casts an iridescent glow across the crystal-encrusted walls, and Arakh's curiosity - lost as it is beneath layers of sorrow - gets the better of him. Closer he wanders, until he sees another colt. Pale and radiant where Arakh is dark and wild, the other boy is...strangely alluring. He is bathed in a glow that has no discernable source, and the calf ambles closer towards him. "You shiny," he grunts, his voice tilting upwards with interest - a world away from the low, glum tones that have plagued him recently.

The other colt seems relaxed, casual. That puts Arakh at ease, too, because even though he was the one to approach, that does not mean he wasn't wary about the possibility of danger. Despite his bravado and bolshy attitude, the calf does get afraid. Even moreso now he hasn't got his father around to fight away the nightmares, to crush the demons that maraud inside his mind. He knows how dark and miserable the world is; he knows that nothing is sacred, nothing is safe. If Death can take even the Wildfire, then it can certainly take lowly, powerless Arakh.

But he senses that he has nothing to fear from this colt. The other boy appears friendly, and offers his name freely. Mathèo. There's the hint of an accent in that voice, but an accent quite unlike the gruff Dothraki one that Arakh possesses. It is...soft, lilting, beautiful, not rough, harsh and guttural. "Arakh," he introduces in turn, giving a listless flick of his tail. Normally the announcement of his name would give him cause to parade an arrogant swagger - he is sword, he is the son of strength itself - but his mood is too low for him to summon any sort of ego. He simply says it, his voice a poor mask for the agony that rages inside.

Do you live here? The lad's eyes widen as he glances around, imagining what it would be like to live here. No grass, no light, no company - that's a recipe for even more depression than he's currently got! "No, Arakh live in World's Edge herd. Lots of trees and grass. No caves." He can't help yearning for the Throat, though, the deserts and dunes where his father taught him to fly. Everything about the Dragon's Throat reminds him of Gaucho, and he wants to be near as much of Gaucho as he possibly can. The Edge is beautiful in its own way, and his adored mother and sister are there, but they are the only ties Arakh has to the place. His heart, his soul, belong to the Throat.

He realises that his melancholy gaze has drifted sadly to the floor, and quickly lifts it again to look at the other colt. "Where Mathèo live?" If he was more alert, his senses not numbed by sorrow, perhaps Arakh would detect the beloved Throat-smell on Mathèo. As it is, he is blissfully unaware of the stranger's home.