At his age, Conquistador should be careless and carefree, but his dubious beginnings have matured him beyond his not-quite year of life. Having had no siblings and only an aged dam to care for him until recently, he knows nothing of play; every one of his actions has a clearly-defined purpose. He runs not for the pleasure of the pursuit, but to build his strength as Xina had encouraged him to. And while the palomino colt finds joy in the sensation of becoming one with the wind, it is tainted by an undercurrent of fear; his lungs, slow to develop, do not cope easily with such speed. Galloping for even short distances quite literally takes his breath away.

Still struggling to draw the heavy, humid air into his lungs, Conquistador neither hears nor sees the mare's approach. It is as if Dia springs up from the sand - one moment the weanling is listening to the mournful sighing of the sea, and the next a golden mare stands at his shoulder, speaking in words so thick that they seem to get caught in the stiff bristle of hairs within his ears. For a long, awkward moment the colt can only gape at the strange, skinny mare. His head is tilted slightly to one side as if to aid her speech in its travel from his ears to his mind, so that they can become sense. Can't say I've seen you around here before. I'm Dia. What's your name, sugar?

As if he has suddenly become aware of her uncomfortably close proximity, Conquistador shies away from the stranger. He feels safer with this small distance between their bodies, safe enough to study Dia in a series of unobtrusive glances. Her coat is almost the same shade as his, a color that is a mixture of sand and sun, and her ribs, like his, form faint ripples across it. But her legs are longer, her body taller; if they were to stand side by side again, his withers would be almost level with her shoulder. She could easily crush him, if she was so inclined.

At that same moment Conquistador draws this conclusion, a pale-tawny stallion arrives, adding to the strain that darkens his coat with sweat. Rade had warned him to avoid contact with other men, and the aura of confidence and authority that enfolds the nameless man is intimidating to a youth not familiar with the hierarchy of a herd. Dropping his gaze to the sands, Conquistador struggles to find his voice, to respond to the man before he can be attacked as his brother had been for refusing to answer Debonaire's questions.

"I-I'm," he stammers, the skin beneath his cheeks flushing with heat. "M-m-my n-name's Conquistador."

Thankfully, he is spared further explanation, because at that moment Xina arrives like some heroine out of a novel, placing her body between the frail boy and the inquisitive strangers. Conquistador leans up against the mare's shoulder gratefully, blowing harshly through his nostrils in fear and uncertainty. Beneath her russet skin, Xina's muscles are taut, and there is an edge to her voice that is wrong. It sounds like trouble.