At first he assumes the sloppy, muddied trenches of countless overlaid hoof prints cutting through the snow will lead him to the sea creature, Kisamoa, but as the old stallion lumbers along behind the main group of curious Helovians he finds himself traveling inland rather than back out toward the coast. A sour expression twists his features and lays flat his ears, pinning tighter to his head with every squelch of cold, disgusting footing along the way. It’s not until he’s caught up to and rudely shouldered past the outer ring of expectant onlookers that his scowling eyes catch sight of the massive turtle resting at the base of an old evergreen tree.

One ear flicks forward as a stream of sunlight falls across the turtles back, bringing the images painted there to vivid life and color. Strom noses his head free of the wool neck covering holding him against the stallions chest, peeking tentatively out at the spectacle around them. He can feel, through the sentiments of his bonded, that the trees decorations and the turtle with his magic mural shell are beautiful, but he has trouble distinguishing the scene for himself with his poor eyesight and the harsh contrast of hot and cold in his thermal vision. Pouting and feeling slighted, he slips back into the warmth of his scarf with a tiny huff of disappointment.

The stallion tilts his head, staring down at the little bulge of snake inside the stained cloth, his sour expression softening. The young companion has been distant and unhappy almost without pause since escorting the blacks son to the Dragons Throat from the maze of the Heart Caves, his jealousy and hurt feelings only deepening in the silent interim since. Gently, the stallion reaches down and nuzzles into the folds of material, probing around with comical clumsiness as if searching for something. He bumps against the young python no matter how he wriggles and coils to avoid contact, gently lipping at the snakes smooth scales and pear shaped head, eventually eliciting a surge of amusement and delight as the game becomes obvious. “Look.” He beckons, pulling free of the scarf with something small and papery pinched between his lips.

Sidestepping to the rear of the tree, he ducks beneath its lowest branches and reaches up to arrange the tiny snakeskin from Stroms first shed across one thin outshoot, posing there once he's finished with his nose raised like a bridge, his thoughts urging, go see. Elation and excitement surge through the pairs bond, a bright shock like sunlight behind closed eyes, as the young python zigzags his way over the stallions withers, poll, and up the plane of his face to the branches above, keen to explore the trinkets hanging there by touch and smell.



"Talk."
OOC // Awwww. Alby places a snakeskin (and his snake) on the tree.