The colt drank the sound of the stallion’s voice greedily through intently listening ears, as though it would fill him with a sort of relief or liberation that he could not yet understand. It was the infant in him, the tiny helpless wretch which reached longingly through the haze of grim, black confusion to snatch every word offered. The colt could not see expression and therefore had no need to guard his own, he was barefaced- an open book. Druid shivered though, perhaps because in the thickly dappled pocket of shade, the sunlight’s warmth could not sink to touch his thin blanket of hanging skin. Or maybe it was the alien touch of care against his reviled heart; emotion (no matter how modest) caressing an involuntary helplessness in him. “It’s alright...” the sound echoed through his mind, bouncing through the empty and unfilled space. He was a clean slate; gullible and comprehensively mouldable.

It was truly a knifes-edge that wavered beneath his petite hooves. Defencelessness and infantile cowardice beckoned him from the safety of that shadow, yet the loner which had become some amount of his character, compelled him to take flight into the opening arms of solitude. Druid knew nothing of time, he had never felt the weight of responsibility, nor did he understand patience. He was a creature of habit, pure impulsiveness- and he had survived with that. His head tilted slightly at the heaviness of his concentration. Tiredness was chipping away at his sickly strength. Soon he would need to find grass again- a hidden place to revive away from the overwhelming hum of this place.

The foal’s eyelids grew heavy and sank a little finding no traction where his gaze searched absently; no reason to hold on. The stallion seemed unwavering, unrelenting as he pursued Druid, and as the surge of adrenaline which had fuelled the foal into defence began to diffuse (unable to maintain such, with no energy stores to draw from), the young appaloosa leaned a little more against his crutch. Still he listened hesitantly as his company continued, asking too for his name. There was a name, and he worked steadily to find it from the lost memories of his past. “D...d...Druid.” he stammered, though the world held little value, and his jaw tightened to trap a rebel yawn as it stretched upwards through his throat.

There was very little Druid could say. What he knew of the world he had discovered only by means to survive- like the taste of grass, or bitter leaves when his stomach could wait no longer; that shelter from burning heat or freezing water (that fell from the sky), could be found when he pressed himself against rough barky tree wood. Conversation was unnecessary during lonely wandering, and the sound of his fractured voice deterred him from sounding for the most part anyway. He knew nothing about Gods and powers, nor kingdoms or employment; not day or night, or if the weather was fine. Even if he had wanted to meet Mauja halfway, there was nothing he could say. He stood there hopelessly, but because he could, Druid would endure.