HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK
It took an amazing amount of self-control for Weir to not empty his stomach at her words. Even then all the self-control in the world could not keep the nauseated feeling in his stomach at bay. The sudden, never-ending emptiness that fills him wholly. He finds himself unusually stiff, as if he is strained in the attempt to simply keep himself standing. His brain failed to tell his legs to move, ceased to instruct his body on what it was supposed to be doing. For a moment he cannot breathe, but the lack of oxygen catches up to him, as it always does. A slow sucking of air fills his lungs and he is unsure whether or not he exists, that this is in fact happening.
Weir hears her words, or he knows he could hear them but that did little for his full comprehension. If he could not fully grasp them then they would not be true, would they? Are they?
The roan knows he should take action, should in some way comfort the sullen mare standing so near him. All he can manage to do his look past her at the gentle words that slip from somewhere. Elysteria has made their way to them, his amber eyes look through her unable to see. He gulps loudly trying his best to send the lump in his throat back to where it had started, to sink it somewhere in the pit of his falling stomach. He is trying and failing to make things okay, to fix this for her and for himself.