LYSANDER
He watches the stranger take a first step back and wears a rueful smile as he waits for a response.
The shock is understandable enough, he supposes. In the world he’d come from – the one mercifully closed off behind him, now – Lysander would be one of the least threatening things that could appear. That place could dream up such horrors as even he had never seen, and he possessed an agile mind and a long history.
Here, however, it seems that magic is either an uncommon thing – or perhaps an even more deadly one.
Or maybe this poor fellow is not indicative of the rest of the population.
He can see from the emotions that flicker across the brown man’s face that he’s comprehending Lysander’s speech, though he’s still made no effort to speak. The stallion watches, bemused, as he takes yet another step backward. “Ah, friend,” he says, gaze unmoving from the other’s face, “You have nothing to fear from me.”
It is true for the most part, though he flicks his tail at a fly-buzz of irritation when there is still no reply, no effort to speak. It has been a long time indeed since he has been met so fearfully; for the first time he wonders what he looks like. He can feel antlers, a foreign weight, but nothing else seems particularly out of place.
He can also feel weariness rushing in, filling the places where his magic had been, and hunger, and thirst. It all combines to make him more impatient; with a shake of his head he steps forward again, closing the distance between them, tilting his head in an effort to force the man to meet his eye.
“Can you at least point me in the direction of someone more willing to talk? I’m looking for a girl – golden coat, purple flowers in her hair. Has she passed by here recently?”
Surely Florentine was not too far ahead of him (how wrong he is, in multiple aspects). Maybe that accounted for the stranger’s fright – that he’d seen not one but two horses canter out of a tear between worlds. Still, Lysander does not reopen the space between them; he has things he’d much rather be doing than standing in a field, talking to himself.
@Auru
The shock is understandable enough, he supposes. In the world he’d come from – the one mercifully closed off behind him, now – Lysander would be one of the least threatening things that could appear. That place could dream up such horrors as even he had never seen, and he possessed an agile mind and a long history.
Here, however, it seems that magic is either an uncommon thing – or perhaps an even more deadly one.
Or maybe this poor fellow is not indicative of the rest of the population.
He can see from the emotions that flicker across the brown man’s face that he’s comprehending Lysander’s speech, though he’s still made no effort to speak. The stallion watches, bemused, as he takes yet another step backward. “Ah, friend,” he says, gaze unmoving from the other’s face, “You have nothing to fear from me.”
It is true for the most part, though he flicks his tail at a fly-buzz of irritation when there is still no reply, no effort to speak. It has been a long time indeed since he has been met so fearfully; for the first time he wonders what he looks like. He can feel antlers, a foreign weight, but nothing else seems particularly out of place.
He can also feel weariness rushing in, filling the places where his magic had been, and hunger, and thirst. It all combines to make him more impatient; with a shake of his head he steps forward again, closing the distance between them, tilting his head in an effort to force the man to meet his eye.
“Can you at least point me in the direction of someone more willing to talk? I’m looking for a girl – golden coat, purple flowers in her hair. Has she passed by here recently?”
Surely Florentine was not too far ahead of him (how wrong he is, in multiple aspects). Maybe that accounted for the stranger’s fright – that he’d seen not one but two horses canter out of a tear between worlds. Still, Lysander does not reopen the space between them; he has things he’d much rather be doing than standing in a field, talking to himself.
@Auru
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
