The large gray mare is seemingly nonplussed by Morrigan's otherness, either completely at ease with her strange questions and behavior, or unwilling to show she was upset by it. The little roan didn't particularly care either way as she was not truly here to influence or be influenced. The Forest was simply where she belonged now, so long as a part of it held Toland's scent. Should that inner light ever go dim, she imagined she would return to the Crossing again to await the next leg of her journey, but until then the trees would always call her back.

Eventually the new leader answers Morrigan's question, although it is hardly a decisive answer. She cannot say if she belongs here, despite claiming to own this place, nor can she claim to be of somewhere else either. It strikes Morrigan that such an existence was so unlike her own, and she frowned, filled with sadness for the stranger. She spoke of being like the wind, of coming in like a lion or lamb, dependent on her mood, but not of belonging. Not of staying. Not of being.

"How lonely that must be," Morrigan says softly, her lips still twisted downward. There is no judgement in her voice, only an observation. "The wind is mighty… but it can never rest." A wind at rest was no wind; any cessation of movement spelled its death in the eddies of quiet. To the golden mare, for whom there had always been a place to belong in not belonging anywhere at all, such an existence sounded exhausting.

Her head tilts then, locks of cream and gold framing her face, as sympathy sang in her voice. "Do you not get tired?"