It’s hard for the boy to notice the subtle smirk that crosses the strange filly’s face. Saoirse is too consumed by the idea that he might have done something wrong instead. The concept is still a new one to him – what do his superiors require of him? What does herd life entail, for the youth who aspire to be somebody one day? What is good and bad?

Regardless, he was truly clueless. The other foal has undone his efforts at this rate. And yet he continues to flounder and search for the things that he assumes are worth fighting, keeping, aspiring, for. When she accuses him of being a crybaby, the boy’s brows furrow and his mouth contorts in displeasure. Pouting – more or less.

“I’m not a crybaby. Er – a baby, I’m not a baby.” Perhaps they were one in the same? It sounded like it. Despite having cried only a few days ago, the boy omits this fact. And doubts that she has any ability to scour his mind, and pick his thoughts freely. (Doesn't realize how easy it is to 'read' him.)

Saoirse bites his bottom lip and shifts his head back when she leers forward. Settling his gaze on the scars of her eyes, her words hot and heavy against his heart. It can’t be true – he thinks to himself. There’s a reason behind all of it, there had to be. The boy’s eyes flicker with thought, while searching for reasons and resolutions. There were healers and magicians, apostles and divine leaders who – while having obtained knowledge beyond his years – could offer them some kind of answer. There was rarely a tale or a story that ended tragically in Saoirse's experiences; perhaps the boy deserved a cautionary tale or two. Regardless, his optimism began to break past his initial fears, and filled him with a sense of delighted urgency.

“You look young,” she says. Has the filly grown taller since her initial greetings? The boy shrugs with his wings, and sighs submissively. “Yeah, I guess… I was born in Orangemoon.”

And of mothers.

“She is lost within herself,” This provokes a severe frown on the boy’s face. He doesn’t quite understand it – it’s vague, poetic. Not the reaction he was looking for. “Oh.” It rolls off his tongue, dull, insignificant and displaced.

The subject is brought back to her eyes however. The boy shyly bows his head, skirting his eyes to the ground momentarily from an unseen glare. “Sorry…” He bites on his lip again, before raising his gaze back to her – side stepping to release his backside from the arena walls. “Do they hurt? They look… painful.”

His voice is no longer imposed confidence. It’s nearly weak, softened by the filly’s strong nature – bending rather than coiling back and pushing on with a useless type of bravado. He still seeks for companionship.

“I know a few things. Healing stuff. There’s plants and things that could, you know… help with it.” She seemed annoyed the longer he stared at them. And hoped that, since broaching the topic so plainly – she wouldn’t lash out at him for offering an alternative. “I hurt my wing once. But I was given something to dull the pain, and… and it made it a lot better.” He nods, before settling off to her left side and swishes his scraggly tail.

The boy forgets his smile, and casts Valdís a curious look instead.