So your plan failed miserably.

So what? You've had plans fail worse. It's not like you expected to be able to just waltz in and ᴘʟᴜᴄᴋ your brother out of the sand, completely unhindered by any sort of patrol or guard. That being said, you also didn't expect your path to be suddenly and unceremoniously blocked by a giant goddamn madman, his huge black form nearly as large as his voice as he thunders down the dunes toward you, his body neatly blocking out the distant frame of the brother you've been ineffectively stalking.

You pull into a halt, ears flipping back in your wild mane as the great black brute postures and glowers - a mighty show, to be sure, but one you did not anticipate. If we're being honest we'll confess your annoyance at not being recognized, heralded home as a returning Prince of the Desert Sands - you grew up here, after all, and so, by your logic, nobody ought to have stopped you from coming home. You still have a key to the bridge around your neck, still have sand lodged deep within your ears. But you also have your easygoing nature, and a sense of bright mischief and delight in your foolish scheme; so when the great dark giant asks what you wanted with that boy, you grin, forever unnaturally good-natured, and laugh. "Why, to gobble him up, of course! He looked like a particularly tasty treat!"

This is in no way a serious threat. Nothing about you has ever been a serious threat. Your voice is loud, and you arc your neck around the (much) larger stallion, hoping your joke will carry to Iskra's ears. You're a laughing David in the face of this brutish Goliath, and though his anger may be a little overwhelming, you're doing everything in your power not to let the apprehension show. His name escapes you, though you remember him from fleeting gatherings, moments past. He must be a warrior, you (somewhat) correctly conclude - warriors are always overreacting to things like this.

Your Ma would be amenable to the game, you think- or would have. You don't know if she could take a joke, now.

Red eyes are met with your own sunbeam gaze;you smile crookedly, conspiratorially, still trying to hold your own in the shadow of the behemoth. "Well, y'caught me. Can't blame a guy for tryin', though." Your wing spreads in a lopsided shrug. "I'm Zèklè, an' the sparkplug over there's my baby bro. I thought I'd try an' steal him away, but now that you got me, I guess I'm the one who's stuck here, huh?" You're addressing Sparky as much as the stranger, and it does not occur to you that this statement seems presumptive - the idea that your homecoming would be thwarted is utterly unfathomable. This is home, after all.