Discussing things with Weir is not so bad, so long as you have the time to do so. Not discussing things with Weir was not so bad either, he was an agreeable sort of fellow that way. Taking a child in from the den had been as easy as breathing, as sure as filling one’s belly with sweet grass when you were hungry, it was something that had to be done. How could you just leave them there? It was a cold place in its own way and not from temperature alone, it simply held that sort of presence to him. There is no way he could have ever left sweet little Neva alone in that place, and one look at the speckle coated, frost riddled girl and he knew it was meant to be. Now the roan did not make a habit of frequenting the adoption lands because it was simply too sad, but he would never question another’s decision to bring home one of the poor dears- certainly not Eira’s either.

If he could manage Weir would likely have brought home a lot more than just the one frosted girl but he thought it best to not make a habit out of going, and it made him uncomfortable as well. Once he had found a child on the brink of death and that endeavor had not panned out well at all, to this day it was a thought he tried best to tuck away into the deep recesses of his brilliant mind.

When the bay mare calls he is always quick to answer, her words were song to his ears, a tether to his heart and without much thought he chose his preferred method of transport rather than walking, the limp he had sustained from the war was rather annoying. In true Weir fashion he made sure to have fun with things, swirling against the winged child in the form of snow and bitter wind. Twisting about in pale blues and soft powdery whites like crystals in the sun before materializing from the icy matter. “Halloooo my dear, who is this then?”The first question is directed to his lady love, Eira, the most beautiful woman in all the lands. Had they had another child, so soon?

Weir thought on that for a moment, amber eyes narrowing, no surely they only had the one child, so this one, well who did this one belong to? “A young friend of Newton’s I suspect?” A perfectly plausible reasoning, they were abouts the same age if he were to guess.

Newton had a curious friend here, one with wings, how nice! The fae had really outdone themselves this season and he couldn’t help but eye the extra appendages closely. “My, my what a wonderful set of wings you have. Are they heavy?” Of course he had many questions, one’s he had never thought to ask Phaedrus of because well, it hadn’t come up now had it? However children usually were more accommodating when it came to learning and telling and Weir could not waste the opportunity. He didn’t think the wings were heavy, especially since they looked like they belonged there and also because he knew that birds wings were hollow so perhaps they weighed nothing at all to the child. It is best to know though don’t you think, to ask the source?

“Oh goodness, my apologies young one. I am Weir,” A tip of his rusty head as he makes proper his greeting.

His entrance is that of theatrics and fun, never sparing a moment for some playfulness and cheer. The girls name is odd on his tongue as he plays with the word in his head, silently sounding it out, ‘Graeme’. He wasn’t one to judge though, certainly there were many others that thought his own calling was an odd one but he liked it nonetheless and this one too would grow on him.

Weir rolls out the questions like a red carpet for a movie premier, long and loud. The rusty hued male does this often, there’s just too much going on in his brilliant head that most of the time it is truly a mess and he can not hope to quiet it. When the girl quickly finds her words he is forever pleased, intent on her answers, nodding and “mmm-hmming” in the blank spaces between speech. Indeed, indeed wings were heavy when wet of course and though he hadn’t expected the girl to think them heavy it was always nice to confirm his ideas when he had a valid source. Who’s to say the confirmation of a child was any less meaningful than that of an elder or scholar- not he.

“A splendid answer yes, perhaps waiting for a bit of age before trying them out might be best, or perhaps a proper teacher. I’m afraid I havnt the experience of proper flight my dear but-” Weir doesn’t have to finish his ramble of words, stopping mid-sentence as the girl turns to Eira and asks for an instructor herself, already calling the bay beauty ‘Mom’. The word melts him, a large smile growing wide across his velvet lips and he can only be joyous at raising yet another life, perhaps they, together, could spread upstanding citizens throughout the realm of Beqanna- at least they could try. Who though, who would dump such a lovely child in the den?

Whoever left them always seemed to leave the pleasant ones didn’t they? Poor darlings, how they ever managed to walk away he wouldn’t dare guess but he’d like to think they had their reasons. If he could give them some small benefit of the doubt he would.

To the question of teaching he does have a proper answer and a name for whom they might seek to help. “Of course, Phaedrus has wings my dear, well spotted!” The idea strikes him suddenly, gears whirling about as he nods himself into assurance. “We’ll have to settle that with him won’t we Graeme? Oh you’ll like Phaedrus, a good sort of fellow he is.” Would that he could ruffle her little forelock but he does not yet think they well acquainted enough for such things, instead he leans into Eira as she speaks, keeping the conversation from small ears. “All right?” he whispers in question, brushing her ear with his maw, “absolutely. No need to worry on it Eira, we have plenty of room. No need for my permission, think nothing of it.”