06-21-2019, 06:56 AM
Pteron does not consider that the lack of watchfulness from his newfound companions a flaw. They are all herd animals, after all; there is no need for each of them to stand as individual guard. He has taken up the mantle for this moment, knowing that the winged mare is struggling and the older stallion is focused on her well-being rather than their surrounding. If he were to even give it thought, he’d have considered it a sign of trust between the trio, that he is trusted to watch the shadows for danger.
He does not fully tear his attention from his newfound responsibility, but the dun tobiano does watch Vastra’s struggle to stand with a single olive eye. She looks stiff, but does not seems broken. Pteron’s brow does fold with pity, but Vastra does not meet his gaze, and it might be for the best if she looked to Aten instead, who is appears more experienced in these matters of brokeness than Pteron. The young stallion has shattered his share – and perhaps more than that – of his own bones, but the knitting back together of them would take no longer than the time it takes Vastra to stand.
When she does stand, Pteron finally turns toward her with his full attention. The dusty mare still looks uncomfortable, but her legs seem to bear her weight. Pteron nods, satisfied that standing is half the battle. The rest will be finding a healer. Aten speaks again and Pteron’s olive eyes flic kto him. He is entrusting the care of this stranger to Pteron, and the pegasus gives the older stallion a nod of acknowledgment and a smile. He is not entirely sure that he knows how to handle this, but the steps themselves seem straightforward and he has a little pride.
“I will.” He tells Aten before looking back to Vastra when the champagne stallion wishes her well in her recovery.
Since she has asked where a healer was, Pteron has been racking his brain. There are some in Loess, still captive, but Pteron is inherently distrustful of their intent. They might heal, but who knows what else they might do. When Loess had begun to gather the healers during the Plague, Pteron had been but a child. He is not sure where they’d all come from, but he knows that Silver Cove was one of the places. Perhaps they’d returned there? He nods decisively, having made the internal decision, and then to the north.
“There should be one in Silver Cove,” he says, sounding far more certain than he truly is. “But the journey on foot is not easy. Would you prefer to trek through the Hyaline Mountains or the Pangean Wasteland?” Even as he asks, the pegasus realizes that perhaps an empty barren desert might not be the best choice.
@[Vastra]
He does not fully tear his attention from his newfound responsibility, but the dun tobiano does watch Vastra’s struggle to stand with a single olive eye. She looks stiff, but does not seems broken. Pteron’s brow does fold with pity, but Vastra does not meet his gaze, and it might be for the best if she looked to Aten instead, who is appears more experienced in these matters of brokeness than Pteron. The young stallion has shattered his share – and perhaps more than that – of his own bones, but the knitting back together of them would take no longer than the time it takes Vastra to stand.
When she does stand, Pteron finally turns toward her with his full attention. The dusty mare still looks uncomfortable, but her legs seem to bear her weight. Pteron nods, satisfied that standing is half the battle. The rest will be finding a healer. Aten speaks again and Pteron’s olive eyes flic kto him. He is entrusting the care of this stranger to Pteron, and the pegasus gives the older stallion a nod of acknowledgment and a smile. He is not entirely sure that he knows how to handle this, but the steps themselves seem straightforward and he has a little pride.
“I will.” He tells Aten before looking back to Vastra when the champagne stallion wishes her well in her recovery.
Since she has asked where a healer was, Pteron has been racking his brain. There are some in Loess, still captive, but Pteron is inherently distrustful of their intent. They might heal, but who knows what else they might do. When Loess had begun to gather the healers during the Plague, Pteron had been but a child. He is not sure where they’d all come from, but he knows that Silver Cove was one of the places. Perhaps they’d returned there? He nods decisively, having made the internal decision, and then to the north.
“There should be one in Silver Cove,” he says, sounding far more certain than he truly is. “But the journey on foot is not easy. Would you prefer to trek through the Hyaline Mountains or the Pangean Wasteland?” Even as he asks, the pegasus realizes that perhaps an empty barren desert might not be the best choice.
@[Vastra]