Ever since accidentally running away, Oren has tried his best to be a good boy and stick around for Mama and Rosey. But with Reave eating up more and more of his mother’s attention, and Oren’s legs growing not only longer but also a bit thicker this summer, he catches himself off-guard more often. Taiga is a fun place to run around in and no doubt the best place to play tag with his sister and his younger brother, but even the prospect of Papa visiting in the evenings can’t fully keep him grounded. And perhaps it shouldn’t and this is what comes from ageing: he can only guess because even his mother can’t always have the answers to his questions any longer. Unsatiated, today the gold-marked roan makes his way towards the common lands.

The field stretches out in front of him like and endless sea and for a moment he wonders to himself what would happen if horses were indeed fish in a sea of green; would the world under and above the sea’s surface look pretty much the same? What if the air were breathable water, would that mean everyone could fly?

Oh, he shakes his head - he shouldn’t be speculating when in the face of strangers, zoning out like that. Already he sees the figure of a mare nearby and can only hope she didn’t see him staring into the distance like that. A closer look reveals scars, from a distance he has been told other horses don’t make out such detail yet (but having been born with it, he has a hard time imagining how little another might see). She is grazing and doesn’t seem to mind him, so he wanders over, trots a bit then stops to greet her.

”Hello,” he greets her. There is a barely bit back kind of curiosity in his tone, and he tries not to ask a question; once started, he might not be able to stop the flow. ”I’m Oren,” the year-and-a-half year old colt states. He knows he sounds a bit strained but he really really shouldn’t. Should he? Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he asked...

For a moment that stretches into infinity, Oren studies the mare and the mare studies him in return. Her coloring is normal, he thinks, but her stance, her eyes and her scars, interest him all the same. She will have stories to tell, he would bet, even though they might not be the most fun ones, still, he believes that there is something there at any rate.

She studies him, too, and he finds it kinda funny - not many people watch so closely, and in a way it reminds him of Mama. Never mind that though, he has started a conversation and it would be strange not to respond to her question. He lights up a little, then shakes his head. ”Not really. I was just curious...” he trails, takes a breath and then the dam bursts. ”Are you new in Beqanna? Where from? Where are those scars from?” he tilts his head, plainly asking for these things out of pure curiosity. ”Are you gonna live here now? Do you have a home yet?” his stream of questions continues and then he shuts himself up, biting his lower lip in the same way as before.

Before he makes it worse, he should give her the chance to answer at least a few of those. At least that’s what Mama always says, though she often laughs about it when he lets go like that. He knows it’s impolite though - Rosey says so, anyway.

It feels like forever until she answers. In that stretched moment of silence he knows perfectly well that it was wrong to ask so many questions at once, and personal ones at that, but he also knows he couldn’t have stopped himself if he had truly wanted to. He expects a look, but none follows; he expects to be turned down, but she stays anyway. He expects a stern word but all she does is deny him one answer and give him many, and during her speech he releases a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Troy is a name that doesn’t ring a bell with the gold-marked roan colt either, but no matter how much he wants to ask more about what it is like, the mare tells him he’s not old enough for those stories (hopefully she just meant the scars, he thinks). A form of politeness has awakened in him though, so he decides he could inform her about some things first. ”Yeah, Beqanna is what they call this. All the lands together I mean. We’re in the Field now, and I live in Taiga with my mom and sis and my brothers. Most of them anyway. Nash lives with my Da on the frozen island.” He grins a bit, boyishly, until he remembers she wouldn’t know anything yet, just like he didn’t know anything yet when she mentioned Troy. ”Taiga is a redwood forest. A bit chilly sometimes because of the sea mist, but a perfect place for hide and seek. And for foraging too. You can come visit if you want.” he offers in one breath, knowing that that is what Mama would have done. Besides, he would like an excuse to talk to her again and -again- ask her about the Troy and the scars.

She asks a question that he is pretty certain that he might actually be too young for - or just too bewildered by the rest of the world. He sticks out a tongue. A herd? Full of girls? Why would he want that? ”I’d rather travel and learn of Beqanna’s history and all the magic,” he admits to the older lady - something he has once or twice admitted to his mom, too, but otherwise not yet acted upon. Lilliana had said that she would like to reinvent the ranks, but also that he didn’t need to have one at his age just yet. That duality had made him hesitant to pick anything at all, though he also trusts his mother to come up with whatever she thought fitting. After all, she hadn’t disappointed so far, and it was clear to him that, aside from the wanderlust, he did take after her more. Or, at least, so he thought based on what little he knew of his father - which was in fact far less than he’d like to admit. The dragon king had always seemed a bit distraught to Oren, and the scaled man had more than once let on that he had lived and experienced more than he perhaps should have. Oren, hardly of age, hadn’t had much time to think that through yet. Perhaps some day he would understand a little more - for now, all he knew is that he knew too little of his father’s childhood to know if he was anything like him. But his mother and her stories, well - those he knew and understood very well.

Except her tendency to call Taiga cold, of course. Neither Oren nor Rosey had ever had trouble with that.