A blue smudge claims the sky beside Dei, who hisses at it when it nears, rushing quickly to his bonded's back. The spot swiftly becomes a mare, an angry looking one at that. Jackal offers her a rather strained smile, finding himself quite irritable with this heat. When she lands, the dun can see how green she is, although she is hardly younger than himself; he regards her quietly, quicksilver eyes steady on her youthful face. What business do you have here in the Throat? Ears tilt backwards in annoyance - do they not teach their warriors to show civility toward visitors? She watches Dei almost fondly, but the bronze only gazes at her with contempt, perhaps mirroring the sentiments that his bonded could not convey.

Another arrives before he can answer the pegasus - a small unicorn, with a glib tongue and clever words. An oasis of refinement in this big damn desert. "Well met, Aurelius of the Basin," he says, inclining his head towards the golden ram, a faint smile on his velvet lips. Aurelius is obviously stolen - he does not seem like the sort to dwell in such conditions, and vaguely, the dun wonders why. Is he an informant, a spy, a traitor? The small unicorn wields the finest sword of all - a silver tongue, infinitely more useful in the art of warfare than any blade. Aurelius strikes the appaloosa as one to battle naught with hooves or teeth, but with words and wit. A fine opponent indeed, a mind Jackal would be very keen to embrace.

Before he can answer the unicorn, a stranger's droll words permeate the arid atmosphere like the smell of a week-old carcass, interrupting the flow of his own mind. A rather feminine looking stag comes into view, the pallor of his coat creating a stark contrast between the black of his mane and the very red heart on his haunch. Silver eyes observe him momentarily, narrowing irately when the allusion of such words sink into his spine. "Is this how you treat well-meaning guests?" he asserts quietly, restraining whatever irritation bleeds through the cracks of his perfect facade; Jackal's tone is controlled and gentle, although it assumes a chiding quality to it that cannot be easily shaken off. Sterling gaze, hard and indignant, fall onto the faces of these dry-weather citizens and their foolish, brash faces. Must he scold these adults like a mother hen to her chicks - chicks that were not even of her own nest? The flap of wings hearken the arrival of an addition to his farce of a meeting, another painted pegasus with a pinched look to a face that otherwise would have been pretty. The King of Thieves feels the urge to kick all of these heathens from his way (excluding the dwarf, of course) and find Kri himself, without these absurd antics. He grits his teeth instead; the heat must be seeping into his cracks, threatening to break his finely cast persona.

The tobiano mare, who is clearly someone of high rank, speaks to him with the same tone as the others. Ears tilt backward further in annoyance, although his face does not betray anything but cordial composure. "Jackal, king of the Foothills," he infers dryly, feeling as wretched as this hot, barren piece of land that seems to mirror his state of mind: depraved and stale. Perhaps that is the reason for their lack of manners - perhaps whatever amicability they had has all been blown away, eroded, erased from the face of this earth by these greedy winds. Ignoring the condescension in the roan's words, he studies her with careful mercury eyes, deciding she is no better than her charge. She is obviously not the sandy Kri - this mare is too tall, too unprofessional. The Resolute would have a heaping ounce more of sense than these warriors, although he had once heard that the king is reflected in the face of his people. What about the queen?

"I seek your sultana on matters of diplomacy," the dun discloses gently (although his eyes are hard as steel, and twice as ready to behead), hinting that this business was not for their ears, unable to mask the tiredness in his voice. He steals a glance at Aurelius, feeling very desperate for intelligent conversation; at least Rishima met him with more courtesy, with a menagerie infinitely more pleasant than this. Auburn tail whisks briskly against his athletic haunch, a feeble attempt to stave off the heat which slavers on his hide like the arms of an abominable lover.

if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones,