Honeyed Pasture Chasing the wind

As the other flopped to the ground, Alastor situated himself near to his body. He’d lowered himself down until his stomach was pressed against the earth, eyes facing his companion whilst an answer was waited on. Truthfully, he knew little of his friend, and absolutely nothing about his cultural background. He was ignorant to the workings of Zoratto’s mind, as well as the reason behind his fear of the mountains. It had been thought upon, the notion of asking, but never had he gone through with doing so. Now, given their topic of conversation, it seemed as if he wouldn’t have to. His friend had started to speak, and so the Greek listened on without a single interruption.

Come the end of the explanation, his brows had furrowed, for his brain could not translate the words into something that he might be able to understand. It wasn’t something that he was at all familiar with, but he’d not asked for a repeat, believing that the first section of the male’s words had been enough. “I didn’t know,” he’d said, the words quiet. Pulling his ears back, Alastor glanced away for a second, working to piece together what he might say next. Never had he heard of spirits inhabiting the mountains, but, he knew, different cultures believed in different things. Looking back, he continued by saying, “The spirits will not hurt you. I promise.” Could he really promise such a thing? It didn’t matter if he could or not, because the words had already left his mouth, and so he’d now do everything in his power to keep them from being made into a lie.