For a time Trell listens. He hears names that mean nothing to him, names that don’t stick as the horses around him quietly introduce themselves to one another, and it is primarily small-talk that fills the air as they tread carefully around one another in idle conversation, as if afraid they may somehow give offense. He focuses on one pair in particular: the first horse is apparently a native of these lands, and the other as foreign as himself. This conversation is useful. He swivels his far ear away from a second, less interesting conversation and gives most of his attention to what’s being relayed by the native. There are multiple islands but all seem to relate be grouped into one “land:” the lost islands. He wonders idly how they could be lost when they’re easily seen from a particular beach on the mainland, then dismisses the thought as irrelevant. Names mean nothing.
As the horse goes on, titling each island and describing the huge range of climates collected in this string of islands, Trell notices a black horse striding not quite toward him. He watches this approach without betraying his attention, and as the conversation he’s following diverges into a sharing of personal histories he loses interest —time enough to collect the memories of others when they have faces worth attaching names to, when he’s been here long enough to start associating places with the horses who live there. When such information will be relevant, and thus useful.
The other stallion eyes him for a moment, then shifts his attention to the waterfall. Trell draws in a deeper breath as if waking slowly from a doze, then blinks his eyes as if to clear his head of sleep. He shakes his head and twitches the length of his dun coat, then looks around as if curious as to what has changed since he fell asleep. His eyes fall on the black stallion as if by chance, and he lets a smile curl his lips a little as he crosses the short distance between them to say hello.
"Incredible, isn’t it?" he asks with a meaningful glance at the distant waterfall. "I’m awestruck every time. Hardly anything else in the world rivals it. Something about the power of the spray, the way it strikes the water below— marvelous. You ever see an avalanche before? It’s much the same, though far deadlier. There’s grace to this," his voice softens at the end, and the expression in his eyes is almost fond as he regards the falls. It’s a tedious charade, but he’s had plenty of practice. Kikka falls for this shit all the time. |