He listens without hearing, if such a thing is possible. He has pivoted to stand parralel with the mare so that they both stand facing the ocean, now that it seems as though they might be here talking for a while. It's more comfortable that way; less socially demanding. If they knew each other better, though, Earthshine might know that she should be flattered, for normally the stallion will make any number of excuses to cut a conversation short.
He wants to figure her out.
One ear twitches atop his dark crest to acknowledge the lack of the word 'Tarrant', the name that most other of the women here had mentioned or otherwise implied as the reason they were here in the first place. So she was here before Tarrant's reign. He has no idea how that makes him feel. He doesn't know enough about the man who had lived here previously, or, heck, the woman beside him, to have a real opinion. Perhaps he will someday.
He snorts at her final comment. "All widows. I got more than I bargained for. They're attached to the place, not me." A pause, then, bluntly, "Are you a widow, Earthshine?"
The question isn't a loaded one; she need not fear that he is prying. All he needs is a yes or no answer. He knows what widowhood can do to a mare, has seen it, even, firsthand: he had watched his mother become a grey husk once upon a time. And he has no desire to experience it again.
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