You do not fear me as I should be feared
The behemoth that had nearly bowled over the much smaller black stag was truly monsterous; teeth-like protrusions jutted from his chest in a seam, tightly closed yet the wrinkles of skin around them bore sign that they were not static as they appeared to be. His stature was massive, towering far over Ammon's form, and while robust and well-groomed, there were signs of wear and travel evident; burrs clung to dirty and dusty fetlocks, weariness sagged the skin beneath the stallion's eyes. They were signs the raven himself mirrored, although his were fallacies to wear as the foundation of a new persona, the white stud before him for all Ammon could see bore them true. "Thou art forgiven." He replied, although his features remained obscurely empty, his words carried weight and weariness, to match his posture and guise.
However, the stallion's question hit upon a nerve pulsating and raw within Ammon, and one of those silky-black ears pinned back against his thick mane, grief surging up his throat and catching him by surprise. Of course, the black stag did not let slip to the other man precisely what his words did to him, that such an innocuous question caused his breath to catch in his throat and his knees to weaken. It hurt, truly a hurt he felt only once before, to be faced with so blunt a reminder of his own antiquity, that he was as foreign to the world as it was to him. "Aye, t'was the dialect of mine culture to speak thus. This land bears a strange tongue, I know it not." He spoke honestly, for that was hardly a secret, and not one Ammon could veil as his own voice betrayed him. He mocked himself for it, although the mammoth stud's words drew his attention, and the secret-keeper's mind smirked in amusement. Did he truly think the raven would fall for such a pathetic attempt at deceit? The land around them was vast, flat and open, a myriad of endless pathways one might take and avoid another, yet the brute had almost barreled right over Ammon, and claimed he did not seek the black stag out?
"Queer, that. Perchance Fate sought to entwine our threads for this day." He inclined his head, finally turning to face the larger stallion fully. "Mine name is Vasher Narvisson, rogue errant and weary walker. What of thee, what name might I call to thine visage?" Finally a sign of emotion, a crinkle at the corner of white eyes as if in amusement, a sentiment not wholly an act. Yet whilst 'Vasher' meant it in camaraderie, Ammon mocked the brute's lie. "And mayhap since thou art wandering these plains same as I, we shalt travel as one. Where about lies thine destination?" He questioned, his pinned back ear flicking forward once more, his ebon features yet unchanged save the wrinkle about the edges of his eyes, his posture however did shift; hoof cocked and his weight shifted, taking on a far more restful, lax posture than the alert stiffness he had held prior, all to keep the larger stud at ease.
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
@Torstein
