He was used to the many changes of Beqanna, and this was no exception.

He has seen her destroyed and rebuilt too many times—the catastrophe that had leveled the previous kingdoms and raised a twisted melding of them in its place, and then the reformation that turned them entirely to ash and brought forth the current set of lands. He has seen her magic stripped away only later to be poured back seemingly tenfold, paving the way for the kaleidoscope of colors and myriad of powers that existed now.

But he is not apart of that world.

Gray like mist and just as apt to suddenly disappear, he is remarkably plain in comparison to those around him. He had never fit in very well even in the times before, back when he would not have been such an anomaly, but to witness what a stark contrast he is to the rest of the world now was enough to keep him confined still to the outskirts.

When the earth had shook he had waited for change.
He had stood, still and listening, waiting for the rolling feeling of magic being dispersed or stripped away, waited to see what kingdom fell and what might thrust threw the earth in its place.
It was a more subtle change this time around, though. Or at least, near as he could tell. He learned soon that the south was flooded by the sea, but he had not heard yet of the ocean kingdom that had been roused awake. Once it had become clear nothing drastic was about to happen he had receded back to the protection of the forest, venturing out only with the foolish hope of catching a glimpse of a particular painted mare.

It's why when he first saw her, there was a moment that something trips inside of his chest.

The flash of white had caught his eye first, but when he turned his silver head it was then that he realized she was also painted with a pale blue, and if there is any disappointment at all the feeling dies before it has a chance to reach his eyes. He could never deny the fact that he was easily drawn to lovely things, and she was no exception, but the tension that grips her body keeps him rooted where he stands.

He does not have any special kind of gift or magic that allows him to tap into her fear, but he senses it all the same. He has spent enough time in the forest to learn how the deer freeze at the sound of a twig snapping under his feet, has learned to recognize the apprehension and fear that rings their large eyes with white before they bound away. She is similar to the deer, the way she stands rigid and tense, and though he can see her eyes are closed he is sure they would mirror the fear in the deer’s should they open. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her by way of greeting, and while there is nothing especially soothing about his voice—it is not soft, but instead rough and still hoarse from hardly ever being used—it is clear he means what he says. Eadoin, for all his stoicness, had never harmed anyone in his many long years. “Are you lost?”