When she tells him of how she has spent a long time simply wandering, he feels a stab of mixed emotions in his belly. "It seems we have more in common than just the patterns on our coats," he breathes into the frigid air, his voice so low it is almost a growl.

As snow falls softly and silently from the black sky overhead, his mind retreats to his time on the continent spent wandering. How pointless and pathetic it had all been. Solgar had been a hermit, travelling and living alone, caring about nothing, not even the skin on his own back.

Still the stallion manages to carry some apathy about his own existence, but at least now, before he grows old, he is trying to make something of himself.

"If you believe in that sort of thing," he replies to her final comment, a little distatefully. In truth, he believes that fate doesn't exist, that each individual must make their own destiny, and he has been known, in the past, to openly mock those who have to place their faith in a higher power to feel safe and secure. Now, though he doesn't agree with her, he doesn't criticize her for her silly query either.

He yawns again. "Why don't you get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning." With an abrupt flick of his tail, and without waiting for her to respond, he turns and disappears into the night.