THORVALD
The bird song and wind's breath is interrupted by the sentence uttered toward him. It is not particularly friendly, but neither is it hostile. For a second, the goliath stilled, a forelimb still raised and hoof clipping against the rich emerald grasses beneath. He's heard a tone like that before, stern but concerned and for a moment he wondered why she is invested in him. What made her descend from her place among the clouds to confront him about the blood that ran down and down, wet and warm and metallic. He is someone, but he is no one to her, a speck of monochromatic interest in a verdant scape of green. A passer by that she may never see again, what about him made her take the time to be invested.
"So I am." A frozen orb flicked, to the colorful mare of sunset orange and roaring flame. The charcoal of her locks striking against the vibrancy of the rest of her. She reminded him much of the far off lands he had heard of in his travels, where the sun was red instead of orange, where the blood of volcanos replaced the fathomless depths of the sea and crystal rivers. He acknowledged her statement with an apathetic nonchalance, regardless of his thoughts of her at first glance. How could you care about something so trivial as a nosebleed when it had long become the norm? He bled a little bit, and that was his price. The concern is touching, in some quaint way, though.
And frowning. Are you ill?
Only then did he turn to face her, turning with an effortless pirouette, the mass of hair upon him shifted and flared with the momentum, before feathers sank back into the blades beneath his hooves and thick braids slapped against his muscular neck. "Perhaps, but I would save your medicines, if you have any. It will stop in awhile." Thorvald elaborated with a shrug of an inky shoulder, punctuated as another glob of blood dripped from his haired chin.
The mare's head dipped in introduction and something in Thorvald's chest coiled. He hated introductions, the folly of being a stranger in a strange land. No one knew your face, no one knew your name, no one knew what you were. It's not as comforting as most may think, once the novelty wears off. The mystery becomes tedious, and so does the silence, even when he craved it. But, then it is a choice to be cryptic, to keep answers elusive from those that sought them out. This...Moira does not look like a threat, and she neither badgered him for answers to questions he didn't have, not had she barged into his personal space like she had a right. The wind brushed over his face again, through his beard and one of the thicker braids which lay fat and heavy against his neck.
"Thorvald Ragnwulf." The warrior finally answered, his own head dipped to mirror her initial greeting.
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