Common

Witty. She is beautiful and witty.

His ears rotate atop his crown, beneath his thick forelock as she speaks. "You are correct, this is a terrible place to be when without a home," he nods in agreement with her statement. Finding yourself in the commons without a home is a gamble. Who would be the first to approach? A tyrant? A stinking Lagoonie? It is a gamble. A roll of the dice. It seems the odds are in her favor on this drizzly summer day, he is neither.

"Not every single lady," he says with his grin melting into a sly smirk. Just the beautiful ones, he silently thinks to himself, not wanting to appear too silver tongued. "Just the ones I think would be interesting to talk to," he says in his thick northern accent, he is easily bored by dull conversations. He settles down next to her, and cocks a single hind hoof in a relaxed manner. He knows that soon he will need to return to the Ridge, that being absent for too long would invite those who wished to take from him what he has built. He has enemies. Enemies in men who used to be allies.

He has painted a target on his back.

"So if your not waiting for someone, then what brings you to the Lost Isles?" he asks as his glacial eyes settle on her. He grows curious of where she comes from. The Isles are a gathering place for those who are lost or perhaps just searching for more. His tail flicks across his hindquarters in a lazy manner. It seems for at-least the time being, he can let the thoughts of war vanish into the afternoon sky. Except, like the brewing summer rains, it can not be pushed far from mind.