The words of the golden woman still rung true in his mind.

It was unlikely that those that were unaware of his presence here would welcome him with open arms. Thankfully, his skin is tough, and he had faced down more than enough cynical and combative opponents in his life. His dreams of grandeur had long since disappeared, and even though the shadow of his father had melted away from his dreams, he still remembered the remnants of war.

So he understood the mistrust and the hostility that had been thrown at him so quickly. Little more than a backwards flick of the ears and he is left watching her, blinking in silence as she mutters a meagre excuse for not wanting to share. “Alright.” He gives her a little affirmation, nodding his head in agreement that he would not push more.

He assumed, as with all the other people here, her memories were tainted by the blood spilt during the war that Persephone had told him about.

Quietly, he angles his body to the side, keeping her in line with his shoulder should a fit of rage find her- as seemed to be common in the women of the isles. Stretching out his great red neck, Vercingetorix moves his lips to the ground, brushing his mouth against the sparse, crusty snow there and finding a small patch of moss that he presses his nose into, breathing deep and contemplating moving on to graze. Instead he speaks into the ground, keeping one eye and ear on the painted mare. “What is your name, then?”