The mare doesn’t react to his approach; the snowy blanket that has fallen over the meadow certainly muffles the sound, and so his crunching footsteps must be easily picked up. Even so, her pensive gaze remains on the icy, frozen land before them and Rafe uses the opportunity to watch her. Being ignored is certainly a better start than being run from or fought, so he stays optimistic. The pretty mare glances to him when he speaks, blue eyes meeting his own. He can’t get a grasp on what he sees in their depths, in the solemn cast of her face before she’s hiding her gaze away from him in the silvery white sweep of her mane. She looks like Viveka and Nyimara - the same dark coat and light mane. Perhaps he has a type, now that he’s here on these islands? He’s always been partial to a pretty face but this is three mares now with the same markings. He makes a face, amused at the thought that he’s become so predictable that he will select a mare to approach based solely on how she looks. This mare, unlike either of the other two, is polite. As soon as he offers his name she shares her own, no hesitation in the offering. Rafe makes a soft humming sound; Sabriel. A pretty name for such a pretty mare, but she’s speaking again so he listens closely. She denies running, and he wants to point out that he had actively stood and watched her do so, but Rafe understands the double meaning - of both his own offer, and her denial. Sometimes, as he has so recently learned, running gets you nowhere. He ran from his home, rather than be forced to kill his own father, and it had done him no good. Running was to spare him being shunned, but so far from everyone he’s ever known or loved, Rafe is as isolated from his family as he would have been if he’d simply stayed and dealt with the problem.
He makes a soft, contemplative noise before turning to face the way she is, quietly watching the way the moonlight falls on the meadow and casts everything in a strange sort of ethereal, colorless glow. Rafe doesn’t like it - the colorless land before him as empty as his own heart. At least the night sky in the Badlands pulls blue, innumerable brilliant stars above keeping it bright and keeping him company. The snow here sets everything on edge, gives the ground before him an unreal, uncanny look that has him on edge. He finally breaks the silence, softly stating, “It’s unfair how distance fails to set things right. The further I go, the heavier the problems I tried to flee weigh.” It’s a bit more poetic than he usually is, but the solemn, sad mare at his side and the eerie midnight setting have combined to have him deep in his memories; Rafe can’t help a bit of melodrama to match the mood. “I don’t presume to know what demons you seek to escape,” Rafe finally adds. “But running from my own has never helped. Only accepting them as my due, and moving forward has spared me whatever torture my own mind would keep me in.” Dwelling on the past does no good; it cannot be changed. Rafe knows from his own overwhelming experience that the only way from the horrors of your own choices is to forge endlessly, stubbornly along. He extends his muzzle to hers, a polite offering of solidarity. “Perhaps,” he teases, voice a little lighter to try and spare the mood, “If we run together we will be twice as fast, and they’ll never catch up.”