He was wandering again through this land that was so new to him. It was inconceivable that there was so much open, unclaimed land. Would he be able to create his own fief? He had run across herdlands, of course, marked with the scent of their inhabitants, and these he had avoided, having no desire to assimilate to their laws and customs. No, he was better than that. Better than them. If they offered him a position of power, as was befitting his rank and title, then perhaps he would reconsider gracing them with his presence. Or perhaps not; he would then have to compete with those already in power, or perhaps he would be forced into a mating that he was unwilling to honor, as was the custom in his homeland.

His own father had not been completely sold on his mate; it was a pairing made for the betterment of the kingdom without regard for the feelings of either party. Braizier had not honored the commitment required of the monarchs by the gods, gracing wench after wench with his kingly presence, while Krysanthe had pined sadly, silently, for a love that she would never be allowed to have. Nor was she allowed to voice her discontent, for as a mare, she was expected to bear that which her mate chose to give, even if she was unhappy with his choices, as she certainly was with the king's...

Memories were interrupted by a view of a mare frolicking happily in the distance. His interest was piqued, and he picked up the pace, moving into a graceful trot. His strides carried him easily and quickly over the ground, the picture of royalty with his bi-colored cranium held high, violet eyes bright, wings folded neatly at his side. He watched the fae as she settled to grazing, approaching from behind and to one side, a low whinny erupting from his throat to announce his presence. He didn't want to frighten the vixen, simply alert her to his approach. Nearing closer still, his next tones formed into words. "Good day, m'lady," he greeted her cordially, orbs twinkling. "A fine day for a nice frolic, is it not?"

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She seemed to be a bit impatient, or a bit restless, or perhaps she was both. That was perfectly alright with the deposed prince; he was of the same nature, and quite willing to simply run freely. Or fly, as was his preference, if it came right down to it. There was something about flight that allowed a freedom that was unknown to a crown prince, held as such by rituals and rules and all sorts of other boring conundrums. But, she was not blessed with the appendages of flight, and so he would not be so rude as to leave her on the ground for the company of an empty sky.

She was kind, and polite, though perhaps shy. He got the distinct impression that her true nature was not being revealed to him: her body rippled with confined motion, but her words were hesitant and unsure. He couldn't help a friendly smile; it was so much easier to flirt with them when they were comfortable. And he was a master of comforts. The silent joke widened his grin, a lopsided and goofy thing, and he spoke again. "It is my opinion that it is always a good day to frolic, m'lady. One must never grow too old for fun, or so my dam always told me." The memory of his mother, so distant, was not as pleasant as that of his nursemaid, who had in fact been the one to tell him that little piece of wisdom. But a mother would be easier to explain than a servant, and so he tweaked his story.

The mare was black all over, and her pelt shone with a well-kept sheen. A long banner hung straight from her nape, silken in the sunlight, and feathering decorated her long legs. Her eyes were an emerald-hazel mix, so similar to those of several of his siblings. That memory, too, he pushed away, intent on his flirtations with the femme. "Orinthia," he repeated, savoring the name as it flowed over his tongue. It was a name that was very different from those of his homeland. "A beautiful name, to be sure. Mine is Quilyan. Did you know, Mistress Orinthia," he added, using the title of respect as he would at home, "that you are, in fact, the first horse I have come across in this land?"

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Even this maiden did not treat him with the worshipful deference of those back home. She was polite, yes, but she spoke to him as though they were equals. How very odd. Was it just this fae whose mind was so warped as to think she were the equal of a prince - but no, she wouldn't know that he were a prince. It was still a shock, and it never grew more pleasant. He yearned for the ease of years past, when he had only to speak the word and there would be countless servants dipping into bows at his hooves, everything from the pretty unicorns placed for his pleasure to the miniature equines whose job it was to bring buckets of water to a parched monarch.

He smiled a charming smile at the fae - Orinthia, her name was. She was a bit plain for his tastes, it was true, but he was a shameless flirt with the ability to make any mare feel beautiful. And she was the first he had come across in days - the prince was rather deprived of womanly company. "What a beautiful name," Orinthia told him, and he resisted the urge to snort. It was a well enough name, he supposed, but he would rather have his own than to share his grandsire's. Ah, well. "You are indeed the first beauty I have come across in this land," he admitted solemnly, his orbs twinkling with mirth. The fae was putting him in an excellent mood.

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"Why, you are such a gentleman." The stallion preened, tossing his head, looking rather proud of himself. Wings stretched slightly, shook, settled into place. He offered a rather dazzling smile - and it was dimmed by the ensuing question. "Tell me. You seem someone of high ranking." It was an observation, not a question. Well, did she simply assume that he would tell her? Gazing at her, he assumed the answer to be yes. How odd this mare was. None at home would have dared be so outspoken to the crown prince. Or even to a supposed high ranking official. Perhaps they would be forward with the commoners, but then he hadn't a clue how those acted.

He pondered for a moment, and then settled for humor. No sense in crying over spilled milk, you see, and there was no use in getting all wrapped up in memories again. He was quite sick of the anger and pain associated with them. "Am I that obvious?" he asked ruefully, a forlorn look gracing his maw. Of course, he still looked the handsome stud that he was, but it was no odd look on one so proud. One might get the impression that he was not use to such an emotion. And one would be right. "I was of high ranking once, but I fear I am a simple commoner in this new land, m'lady," he added. Why not tell the truth? What would she do with it, anyway?

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There was something off in her expression suddenly, as though his facade was transparent, as though she could see right through his pretty words and into his soul. It was remarkable, really, and he found himself with a new respect for the fae. He was intrigued by her; she may be beneath him, but he did not view her as lesser. She may be a commoner, but she was not unworthy of his time. If she were a stallion, he may have treated her with more arrogance, but she was not, and he strove to hold his pride in check. Mares, regardless of rank, were beautiful creatures and quite worthy of his respect. More so, apparently, when they chose to question that which had never before been questioned.

He frowned slightly, brow furrowing. "It was much different than the life I must find for myself here, Mistress Orinthia. It is an easy lifestyle, to be sure, to be royalty." He found himself continuing on, thoughtfully. She was easy to talk to, this femme. Was it because of his impromptu demotion, was it always so easy for commoners to get along? He supposed there would be perks to the common life. No one would be watching his every move, declaring how his life would go. "But there were certain obligations to which I was bound that were not so simple." Arranged marriages, for one, but he wasn't about to mention that.

"I suppose royalty, as any position in life, has its benefits and its negatives. But enough about me," he continued with a smile. "What of you, m'lady? Where are you from?" There was something thrilling about hearing tales of distant lands, even more so that exploring them. To arrive in the lands, to see them with his own eyes, was almost a disappointment after hearing elaborate stories. No, in this, perhaps he was odd, that he preferred his stories over the reality. Or was that so strange after all? Who would prefer reality and its losses and its pain over the stories of honor, valor, love?

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She was so confusing. Curious, affronted, sad - all these emotions had crossed over the mare in the short time they had been conversing. He thought ruefully of the faes back home, with their kindly smiles and flirtatious comments, always submissive. Did they simply not have the emotions of this one, or were they better at hiding them? Things were so different here. did he really want to settle in such a place, hoping to replace what he had lost?

"Your history sounds much like my own, Mistress Orinthia," he told her. It was truth, save that her family's realm - if it was even large enough to be considered such - would have been much smaller than his domain. It was the thought of a female leader that threw him - such a thing did not exist in his land, as everything was based on a patriarchal system. How odd. he frowned. "I, too, have lost most of my family. One of my brothers made it to this land with me, but the rest..." he trailed off.

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"What happened to the brother that came here?"

He smiled, an automatic reaction when he thought of his brother. They were so very different, and had never been close at home, but after the revolt and the ensuing anarchy, the pair had travelled together and become very good friends. They were not dependent on each other, of course, having grown up very much apart. They travelled together at times and apart at times. Quilyan would find his way to warmth and a willing mare, and Erigor went off to do... whatever Erigor did. They were two very different stallions, Quilyan with his charm and dry wit, and Erigor with his stately presence and knowledge. They were formidable as their own entities, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure where he's gotten off to... but don't worry," he added hastily. "I'm sure he's fine. We don't always travel together, he and I, but we always find each other again. In fact, I just saw him a few days ago when we arrived here." Thinking of his brother was to bring fond memories to the forefront of his mind, almost all of them from the recent months of their travel. But to think of his brother was to remember his other siblings, and his parents, and all of those who were his family, even if not by blood. And to think of them was to remember his lost home.

He remembered his mother's golden eyes, peering at him with mirth when he was but a youngling, when he was the only child, and she had eyes only for him. He remembered his father's massive wingspan, the largest in all the kingdoms, they said. Magnus, a full-grown stallion now (or, rather, when the revolution began), but the memory was of his younger years, a rowdy little ball of chestnut, all action and no brains, but lovable, to be sure. Anayis, the first of the girls, a beautiful filly, and so kind-hearted. Much to soft to be of any use, but he remembered her giggle, infectious as Mother told them bedtime stories. Then came Ishtar, a fiery filly with the personality of a stallion - Father always did say she should have been born a male - and her twin, Nasreen.

Nasreen had been his favorite sibling, though he'd never admit to having a soft spot for her. She was shy, but intelligent, with a witty sense of humor that matched his own, though it was rarely used. She was two, so young - had she survived? And lastly, Eirik, the youngest. He was the plainest of all of them, and far too young to have developed a standout personality. Still, bland as he was, he was Quilyan's brother, and he would miss the chance to teach him to spar, to teach him to carry himself like the prince that he never knew he was. With the memories came the questions: where were they now? Were they even alive? Mother had been pregnant again - would she have lived to carry the foal to term? Would he ever meet his sibling, or was the chance stolen from him with his home? He had never been a family man at home, but now, their ghosts consumed his every thought.

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