His old and knock kneed appearance doesn't lend itself well to speed or athleticism in anyone's mind, but once he does start moving it's almost easier to just let his spidery legs keep swinging than to try to work against momentum. Ears still flat from his encounter with the Weavers - what exactly? Baby momma? Wife? - and what must undoubtedly be his now wounded daughter - thanks to him - the old stallion anxiously flees the crafters cave. His companion fruitlessly tries to reason, telling him in silent mantras that no one is following, that the filly was still on all fours and speaking as clearly as she likely ever has, but his bonded is unreachable even to him.

Willfully shut off from their bond, the black focuses on the roar of air rushing into and out of his lungs, the staccato brrrrap brrrrap of his hooves on the hardening ground of the Basin. He lets the jarring of his joints as he runs push away thoughts of the Weaver, thoughts of his stupid ass family, and the reason he'd ever gone to their personal dwelling in the first place. It had been a stupid idea, he berates himself, going to Johnny for a dose of cheer. Not even the candy-corn has happiness enough to lift the darkness from the stallions heart today, nor the serpent prodding at his mind so insistently. The python silently pleads with him to slow down, his mental tone changing with his growing alarm for both of their safety.

Finally yielding, the stallion blinks hard and recognizes the sheen of metal looming ahead. His hoofbeats break from their even rhythm to a disorganized percussion of beats and slides as he shambles to a halt and stares up at the massive steel sentinels, the bubbling purple clouds overhead finally ceasing their downpour.

Societal norms make him assume the machines are meant to be male - protectors, warriors, masculine beings - but staring up into the face of one of the impassive greys, he wonders if he wouldn't find them more comforting as mares. Mothers are just as much guardians as anyone else, the first guardians and sometimes the last too. His mother was many years dead by the time his fortunes turned for the worst, but it's her comfort he sometimes still craves in his twilight years, her forgiveness he questions in the quiet of the night and the melancholy of birthdays and anniversaries. Today is no different.

He wonders if she alone could find heart enough to forgive him. She would see the logic in his choices, he knows, but he also wonders if she would have seen their possible impact and decided against the stigma of infanticide. She wouldn't hold it against him, he doesn't think, but she too is a mother. He wonders whether maternal instincts or her lifelong worship of the objectively logical would win out in a one on one contest. With her absence and no way to hear or be heard, he can only speculate. A small measure of relief comes with this knowledge, the shadow of doubt in the back of his mind making him fearful of a definitive answer. Piecemeal as he is already, he doesn't think he could stand to lose the very memory of love along with all the rest.

'Love!' The python asserts in no uncertain terms, dismayed and more than a little bit hurt that so far his affection has gone uncounted. He unfurls himself from the stallions right horn and slides partway down the haggard face he calls home. 'Not alone.' His pear shaped head lowers to challenge, two black eyes turned to one emerald. His tiny forked tongue flicks in emphasis, nearly touching the lashes of his bonded in his refusal to be ignored. Three months he's been treated like some embarrassing, unwelcome crush, but no more says the angle of his body, the sharpness of his gaze, his very thoughts that echo forcefully through the stallions mind.

The old stallion softens somewhat, his body loosening from its defensive tensing. "I know." He breathes, a tired, indulgent smile trying valiantly to take control of the blacks perpetually down-turned mouth. He inhales deeply, letting the sense of warmth and affection that he's held away at arms length even while so desperately craving it seep into him at last. The snake bumps the top of his head against the stallions cheek, much like a domestic cat greeting its favorite housemate and the black breathes in reply, "Happy birthday to me."



"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // Takes place immediately after this