For a few long, quiet moments she ignores him, still watching the vast expanse of the ocean spread before them. He uses the opportunity to better assess the mare before him. She doesn’t look to be in bad shape, not emaciated or shaking in exhaustion or scraped and bleeding like so many he sees. For some reason, the Common seems to attract the most desperate sort and so a confident, calm mare like this is an anomaly. Rafe doesn’t take offense to her silence - he’s had much icier receptions in the Commons, and a bit of quiet is hardly enough to deter his attention. Especially from a mare as pretty as she is - and one so alone. It’s always easier to convince someone back to the Badlands if they don’t have another more hospitable home on offer. Salem is rarely anyone's first choice, and the aptly-given name of his home tends not to inspire confidence.
It seems that something shifts in her though, and she meets him half way, extending her own muzzle so they can exchange breath. Rafe is pleased at the reception, already miles ahead of where he has managed to get with Viveka or Vela. The giggle is unexpected, and Rafe quirks a smile at her. Is it because of his coat? Or perhaps she’s actually amused by his joke. He tends to get a better reception to his bold white-splashed, stripe-marred coat here than he ever did at home, but he knows he cuts an odd figure that tends to inspire either immediate abhorrence or interest. Either way, his blue-green eyes settle on her, and when she speaks his ears prick forward in interest.
Her question confirms what he had suspected - that she had little idea of where she’s just landed. It could work in his favor, her ignorance of the customs here - easier to drag her away, if she doesn’t know what she’s stumbled upon, or that she could flee to the Peak to avoid him. “Mm,” he says quietly, glancing back over his shoulder to watch for anyone approaching. Rafe sees none, but he stays attentive to what is around them. “This is the Commons,” he tells her. “On the Crossing isle. People come here when they’re….desperate.” He thinks of Sabriel, of the pretty, sad mare who flung herself at the mercy of fate, knowingly giving up the power of choice over her own future so that she could be far from whatever, whoever, it is that haunts her. “Anyone here who holds a territory on one of the outlying islands can claim another; little is left to choice, if you happen upon the wrong King or Queen.” Conveniently, there is no mention of the fact that he is certainly the wrong sort of King. He turns back to the mare, gaze assessing, interested for her thoughts on this development. He doesn’t miss how she holds herself, a carefully portrayed confidence that he knows from the image he presents to the world. “Are you desperate?” Rafe teases the pretty mare. He realizes now he doesn’t actually know her name, and he hasn’t shared his own. One ears flicks back, and he looks back out over the ocean. “I’m Rafe,” he adds. “King in the Badlands, far to the south.”