At this point, he’s new enough that her warning about the dangers of Novus would have been met with more disbelief than worry. Give him a few weeks, though, and - much like her assumption about his change of heart when it comes to personal space with mares - he’d be forced to agree. But this is still Charlemagne pre mazes and dragons and frightening, wizened sages, and his hopes are still far higher than his fears. Although, when she speaks again, the two grow a little nearer to even. He snorts a breath at her response, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. There was a tone he was accustomed to from the girls in his homeland, and he knows better to press her on it. It’s not until she continues that his gaze slips back to her, first taking in her expression and then following the scrutinizing sweep of her own eyes over the endless roll of the dunes. As she casually lists each danger he searches the horizon intently, but all he sees is an ocean of sand, and flat clouds, and the shimmer of heat at all the edges of the world. Suddenly he feels as though he is sweating even more, if such a thing were possible. It’s clear enough from her whistling that she’d intended to unnerve him, and he’s irked that it had worked. Charlemagne is suddenly tempted to surreptitiously check every step he takes to make sure some stinging or biting creature isn’t laying in wait beneath, and his brows furrow as he tries to keep his gaze with hers on the horizon. “What’s an elder teryr?” he asks, forcing his voice steady and nonchalant. It’s proof of the dubious things he has learned from both Bexley and Florentine that he adds, offhandedly, “If you hunted it, we should be fine, right?” In all fairness, he, at least, had a horn. And no idea what a teryr might be. @ |
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