Martin's childhood had been a story of small adventures and big stories, tucked away from the savagery of warring factions and well-shielded from predators by the ever-watchful eyes of the guardian corps. Bison, then, were no less fantastic of beasts than dragons or fairies. Perhaps they were moreso: he himself had once glimpsed a dragon from afar as it bathed in Terra's blessed magma pools, when he was very young.
I was afraid that male was going to attack you, she said.
Exhilarated by his brush with either death or his own imagination made flesh, he beamed back at the little mare and replied with complete honesty: "I was too."
As a general rule, Martin had done his best to live cautiously after leaving the vale behind. He had only himself to rely on in the wild spaces and, as the shamans had been quick to remind him on a regular basis back home, he had about as much of a knack for herbs and poultices as a tortoise had for flying. The last thing he'd needed was to die of sepsis because he got into an argument with a particularly ornery porcupine.
"I've only just arrived," he said, flicking an ear self-consciously sideways. "My name is Martin. How about you?"
Implicit in the question, and perhaps unable to be hidden beneath the easy self-assuredness he had within himself, was a sense of trepidation over being new, different, other.
@Johari
