So it seemed his mother had developed a reputation of sorts. Yet she says nothing of me, Orhan mused. He could only assume that meant she’d become familiar with his mother’s scent some time in the past year, while he was spirited away on the continent; either that, or when he was a baby and his scent might have gone unnoticed or otherwise been uninteresting to any passing travellers. The stallion curiously searched Vesti’s face for signs of her age, his gaze tracing the creases and lines (or lack thereof) that shaped it. She did not seem particularly old to him, but she must have been older than him if she had been travelling Salem long enough to know about El Aran. I wonder... did she know?

He did not know who Badr was, or particularly care. When he was here, at home in the desert, the outside world mattered little. His concerns, when they cropped up, involved either intruders or matters of survival. That was it. But knowing what he did from his adventures on the continent, as well as the moments such as now -- when he stood before a horse who had been to so many other places, who smelled and looked so strange to him, simply because she was someone other than his family – made him just the tiniest bit curious. Perhaps one day he would venture to his borders and see what lay on the other side, as he had as a child. Perhaps he would even met Arcana again, and travel the blood-colored hills of the badlands with her. Blood of my blood...

Snapping out of his reverie, Orhan leaned forward and drank of the faintly sulfur-tasting lukewarm waters again. “My mother does not always make for the best of company,” he continued quietly, water dripping from his dark muzzle, “and this desert provides little at the best of times, but you are welcome to stay as long as you like.” He turned his eyes on her, wondering. “I presume you will want to continue on your travels soon enough, though.” It was not a question.