He saw him first, a dark outline against the night, but d’Artagnan knew it was his cousin. The scent was the same and the odd rays of silver moonlight caught on his patch of white that was uniquely his and stained his mane the same snowy colour. Déodat. The Mender’s true kin and warm friend, he had not much respect for the noble clans of his old land, but this noble prince turned out right for once. At least, in the shade’s opinion. Folds of black forelock flopped over one side of his face as he dipped his head in greeting, laughing quietly to himself at the first words his blood coloured relation spoke. How quickly he pierced the truth. Right not the Nightshade truly did feel like he had the weight of the world upon his slim crimson shoulders, there would come a day when he would rise again, but for now the stinging whip of defeat was still raw in his mind. Two resounding losses, the recovery would be slow, but what it instigated afterwards would be interesting. A reason to return home perhaps, or a reason not to. Perhaps if he tasted hornless blood again he would find the familiar spark of fire within himself.

Aramis had turned to greet his molten cousin then, gilded eyes glowing up at him whilst a pointed tail happily switched from side to side. A quiet whelp issued the hell borns hello before he curled up and went soundly back to sleep. d’Artagnan looked at him for a moment, envying the hounds ability to simply switch off from the world, before finally regarding Déodat with a brotherly smile. "Something like that. My shoulders are strong enough, however. It's something much closer to home that troubles my mind." Troubling was putting it mildly. His smile turned playful then and his brows deepened as eyes twinkled in an old kind of mischief. It had been sometime since he’d spoken to Déodat, he was most certainly going to enjoy himself.

"I am much more interested as to what an overindulged noble brat is doing on my beach." The words were jovial, taunting, like a brother poking fun at his younger sibling as he self proclaimed the Endless Blue his own, in typical d’Artagnan style. Everything was the Nightshade’s really, at least he walked the land like he owned everything and all that was in it. It was the best way to walk in the shade’s opinion. As he awaited his cousin’s reply his mind drifted back to his younger days, when the trees seemed much taller and the world much more exciting.