An odd pair they make, this warrior of many thoughts and few words and the sage who would be a bard if the sands of time allowed. Whatever magic Vadim possesses lies in words and the power he believes they hold- or at least, it will be once he learns to wield them well. And what quiet magic does the listener have? The power to draw truth from silence, to bring comfort when no words can give it. For the golden stallion is at some loss for what to say in response to this not-so-strange stranger's words of loss. What pretty turn of phrase is appropriate in the face of such tragedy even spoken of in such simple words. Instead he falls still and silent for a moment, as though the gravity of such a thing roots him to the ground. He has never known such loss. He knows that his parents live, or at least they did when he left. He is relatively untouched by tragedy.
The moment does not last long though and thoughts of home are quick to bring his attention back to the desert around them and the question of it's welcome. "I grew up in a desert not so different from this. Golden dunes stretched out like a slow-moving sea, shifted only by time and wind. So I suppose I can't think of it as unwelcoming because it will always be where I wish to be." He speaks with confidence, as though it will always be true. Perhaps it will. Perhaps he is simply still too young to understand the vast changes that life may bring.
"The mountains there are imposing, but they are the walls of the Night Court so perhaps it is not Solterra with is unwelcoming." There are spoken with a sense of humor, a lightness that suggests they not be taken seriously. Though he has not met many from other courts, he has danced in the sea with the Night King and he does not think the court is so unwelcoming. Perhaps there is tension between them but as of yet there seems to be nothing to keep him from enjoying the beauty and theater promised by the Night Court. He will go there eventually- there is just so much to learn of his own court first.
"I am Vadim- it's funny, isn't it, how many of us aren't native? The lost and exiled, wanderers and outcasts. What a funny lot we are." His pale gaze roves away from Eik, the words tumbling from his lips as long held thoughts escape, musing freely on the breeze that plays around them.
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