What anger Nephilim had once harbored toward Ailill was no more – which was precisely why he was not behaving aggressively with the younger stallion. He eyed the golden boy of Paradise when he pinned his ears but did not, in return, pin his own. If Ailill escalated the situation the story may have grown differently, maybe Nephilim would find it in himself to get angry, but for now he was not and could not be. Too much had happened for him to rage over past faults and while he had no reason to trust Ailill, he no longer harbored such great resentment against him.

If anything, Nephilim was simply tired.

The exhaustion felt deep in his bones only worsened when Ailill spoke of Pagan’s absence, the Inlet’s emptiness. He glanced away from Ailill and toward the quiet late-spring landscape of the Bay and wondered what had happened to Tinuvel to make it so quiet. True, it was a hard place to live. Those who lived here were proud to do so; proud of the strife it took to survive in a land harsh as this. To simply leave… for everyone to leave…

“If I come across her, I’ll tell her you were looking.” He said simply. It was an easy enough promise to make; it didn’t mean Nephilim would force her one way or the other, simply that he’d pass a message along. He wondered briefly if one who’d been raised among snowdrifts could be happy in a place as humid as he briefly remembered Atlantis being, but said nothing. Just as he was proud of his home he had to imagine Ailill was proud of his.

Nephilim was not his daughter and was not looking to start a fight.